


saddle tramp

by muadnait



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Animal Death, Drinking, Drug Use, Emotional Baggage, Eventual Relationships, Feelings, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Underage Sex, Period Typical Attitudes, Period Typical Bigotry, Physical Abuse, Prostitution, Skinning, Slow Burn, Smoking, Strangulation, Unsafe Sex, Yearning, wound care
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:48:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25251889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/muadnait/pseuds/muadnait
Summary: Quickly, Arthur dresses into the rest of his clothing, not bothering to do any of the buttons on his flannel or overcoat, threads the familiar iron of his piece to his hip once more, secure and heavy within it's holster. He flips his hat up onto his head and quietly limps across the room, slips out the door and into the hall. Tries to stifle the lameness in his gait. His pockets are nicely stuffed, the take warming the lining, and it wasn't an unsuccessful job by any means. Arthur should feel accomplished, finding comfort in the fact that he has something to bring back to his people, but in all honesty he's doesn't think it'd be possible for him to feel any more pathetic in that moment.-This is a revised version/continuation of my previously abandoned fic by the same name.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith, Arthur Morgan/Other(s)
Comments: 33
Kudos: 121





	1. over head and ears

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! As stated in the summary, I've decided to return to this fic of mine. I'd always planned on finishing it, but well, you know how 2020 has been. But! I also decided that I wanted to completely rewrite it as well, as my writing style has changed a little bit since I last updated. 
> 
> This fic is very much the same as it was before, in terms of layout and what happens, I'm rewriting everything from scratch however and have added some more meat and such to the whole thing. The older fic is no longer available as I'm just more comfortable with it this way.

The john is pushy and curt; casts charged, fidgety looks over his shoulder as he fumbles with the lock of the hotel room door. He's shorter than Arthur by a scant inch or so and carries a fit build, stomach soft but shoulders and arms thin beneath his sumptuous suede jacket, soft black and scuff free. He comes from some kind of money, that much is clear. Well off enough to keep his belly full and clothing lavish. Arthur waits for him to open the door with a sedated energy, standing with his back against the wall and a thumb hooked over his belt, fingers drumming along the red brown leather. When the john finally twists the key into place and the lock clicks loudly in it's release, he shoves the door open and puts a rough hand over the curved breadth of Arthur's shoulder, makes to shove him into the room but finds himself unable to get Arthur to budge. Arthur looks down his nose upon the man, sticks his weakly smoldering cigarette between his teeth before allowing himself to be herded into the room at the second impatient squeeze against his shoulder. As Arthur crosses over the threshold, the john quickly steps in close against his back, throwing a nervous glance down the dimly lit hallway.

"Sit," the man commands in a harsh snap, and Arthur complies obediently. Seats himself on the edge of the single bed, leaning back onto the heels of his hands with his legs spread in a wide, lazy sprawl. He watches with only a mild interest as the john cuts swiftly around the small room, locking the door and yanking closed the thick curtains that drape over the room's only window. He undoes the brass buttons adorning his fancy jacket, peels it away from his body to reveal the red satin lining within. The flash of bloody color catches Arthur's eye as the jacket is tossed over the back of a nearby armchair. Running a shaky hand through his hair, the john stops to a halt in the center of the room and pins Arthur with dark, narrow eyes.

"Take all yer clothes off," he says, leaves no pause for debate or protest. "And don't do nothin' else."

Arthur plucks the cigarette from the slack hold of his lips, blows the smoke out slow and easy. He leans to the side and gives the stick a solid shake, ash crumbling from the tip and into the shallow tray set atop the bedside table; laying it along the glass rim and standing, Arthur shucks the cotton suspenders from his shoulders, works his belt open. "Sure thing," he murmurs lowly, voice smooth like molasses.

He can tell from the john's behavior that tonight's trick is going to be a rough, callous experience. Arthur cannot say that he's a fan of the more 'impersonal' clients, the ones who treat him with cold and detached regard, as if he were little more than a warm vessel to release their pent up frustrations into. Not touching him anymore than they can seem to bare, refusing to look him in the eye, or even at his face. He's plenty used to it of course, he can carry on with it despite the sting it leaves, sure. But it doesn't satisfy him none, not in the way that he craves, desires. Once Arthur stands in nothing but his skin, familiar heat beginning to sizzle and buzz underneath, he turns and looks to the john expectantly, doesn't miss the way that the man's eyes sweep down the length of his body, past his knees to his feet, then up over his stomach and chest. The corner of the john's mouth twitches, his lips purse and thin to a dry line. It sends a curl of warmth hooking through Arthur's stomach

"On yer front," the john demands then, strained edge to his voice. He takes a step forward and gestures toward the plushy bed, "don't say nothing, don't move, and don't look at me." He pauses for only a moment then adds, practically spits, "and don't touch me neither."

It's an order that would normally have Arthur rolling his eyes, scoffing and informing the client of the ludicrous nature of his demands. But he holds his tongue, averts his eyes. It's been far too long since Arthur has last worked a job; a decent one that is. One that promises a pretty sum of money, and perhaps a slice of catharsis. He makes a casual grab for his cigarette before laying the trunk of his body along the bed in a horizontal fashion, thighs against the frame and the balls of his feet flat on the wooden floor. Arthur crosses his arms in front him, sucks the filter of the cig between his lips once more and works to finish it off. There's the metallic click of a belt being pried apart, and Arthur risks a minute glance over his shoulder, he can see the fuzzy shape of the man shuffling up into place behind him, can feel the heat of his body as he closes the inches between them. Arthur allows himself a private grimace, looking away and keeping his eyes forward and firm. He's unable to cap the short tremor that jolts up his spine when dry hands skate up the full, smooth expanse of his thighs, anchoring hard and hot around the spurs of his hips. They're soft; the client's hands, like he's never worked a day in his life. Part of Arthur revels in it, another part of him squirms like a fox in a snare. He looks from the gaudy pattern on the blanket to the deep, maroon red curtains pulled over the windows, can see the oily yellow glow of the street lights peaking shyly through the narrow cracks in between. With one last puff, he finishes his cigarette, stubs it out on the old bedspread and flicks it away to the floor.

The john didn't even undress himself, only pulled off his expensive outerwear and tugged his pants and drawers low enough down his thighs to pull his dick out.

"You'd better have oil or somethin'," Arthur drawls caustically, fixing an eye over his shoulder once more. The client freezes, his grip on Arthur's hips turning sharp and tight, his face twisting into an expression of anger. "'Course I do!" He snaps gratingly. Twisting around to yank open the drawer of the bedside table, he snatches up a dark, generic looking glass bottle. A clear liquid sloshes chaotically inside, and the label is faded and rubbed away. "An' I told you not to say nothing."

Arthur sighs, musters a small shrug before settling back into the warm cradle of his crossed arms. It isn't too often that his tricks are unprepared to such a degree, Arthur himself always keeps a tin of vaseline or oil on his person when he's doing whore's work, in case of such times. Always safe and hidden, tucked away at the bottom of his satchel. But if someone is seeking out a shake in the sheets with another man, and is willing to attach money to that shake, he expects them to be properly prepared and ready for it. Arthur at least grants himself the courtesy of only working with men who have an idea of what they're doing. If he isn't desperate, as he is now. 

He jumps, only a little, at the sudden push of slippery fingers into that soft, heated spot. There's not time taken to ease them comfortably into the tight space, the john making a quick and selfish service of working Arthur open, only seeking to assuage his own circumstance. After a few negligible moments, the john must have decided that that's well enough, for he's withdrawing his hands once more. Scooping up the discarded bottle and dumping a liberal amount of the smooth oil onto the flat of his hand, he coils slick fingers around his throbbing member, generously lubing his length before wiping his palm against the old blanket. He grips Arthur's hip then, uses his other hand to crush the head of his prick into Arthur's carelessly prepared passage. The john exhales hotly as he works his hips in small jerks, drilling in with a greedy urgency. Arthur grunts at the sharp pressure that pops into his stomach, the hard plane of the john's hips pressing flush against the meat of his bottom.

It's a rigid fucking, the client showing no interest in making the experience a mutually pleasant one, he slides a hand up from Arthur's hip and over the curve of his spine, curling over the muscular slope between his neck and shoulder. His fingers press hard against Arthur's collar bone, thumb a steady pressure against the back of his neck, pulling Arthur back against him in a tight hold. The bed shudders in tandem with the man's erratic thrusting, it's legs whine and drag on the wooden floor with jagged growls. Arthur turns his head to the side, honey brown lank of hair falling over his damp forehead, cheek against his forearm. He looks over at those strips of light settled around the curtain's edge again, a glowing frame of orange-yellow warmth. Wincing candidly at the sharp and impassive driving of the john, Arthur twists his neck to press his forehead against the back of his wrist, teeth hard against his inner lip. The john is hitting every sore spot, Arthur's own cock barely half hard between his thighs and the creaky old bed beneath him, interest only weakly sparked by the thoughtless rolling of the john's prick over the delicate nerves hidden within.

Arthur has had worse sex, truly. And he's far from enjoying himself in this moment, but at each trickle of doubt that worms into his mind, desire to shove the deep pocket away from him, the promise of much needed money whispers sweetly into his ears. Placating and sobering, encouraging him to remain limp and complacent until what's done is done. So he takes it, and lets the john use him. 

Hopefully, he'll be done quick and Arthur can be on his way. He'll very likely be sore, on account of the client's selfishness, but Arthur will be happy just to further line to tithing box back at camp. Preen and grovel under whatever praise Dutch will throw his way for a job well done.

He lets his mind wander, fades in and out, tries to distract himself from the sweaty hands that paw at his hips and sides, the man sloppily fucking him in a desperate manner as he nears his completion. 

Arthur thinks about a client that he had bedded not long ago, five months by his account. A tall and broad man with a stony face; he'd spoken very little, and what words he did grace Arthur with were thick and curled with some kind of foreign accent. Arthur hadn't minded it none, though the client couldn't speak easily, he only needed to let his money do the talking. The thought of that night has Arthur's face warming up a bit more, sends a much needed thrill down to boil in his groin. It had been in some kind of mountain town, a logging place. No more than a dusty main street lined with old wooden buildings, at least half of them vacant and destitute, broken windows and boarded doors. It was typically small and relatively unpopulated, given how far into the rugged terrain it was, but there was definitely work to be done, outside of by the book robberies and pick-pocketing. Plenty of men, and no women. At least, not that Arthur had seen anyhow. A conclusion that Arthur had come to after a quick and careful browse about the place. Good news to be sure, it would strengthen his chances of charming someone into bed with him. Arthur had picked up his fateful client in a small box of a bar, base burner warm and cooking through his veins.

He'd been paid first and foremost, an uncommon practice in this line of work, but the money looked so pretty in Arthur's hands, and he wasn't complaining. The client had led Arthur to his bunkhouse, holding up a hand to halt Arthur in place before stepping inside the darkened space, then shoving out two other men who'd been presumably sleeping there. One of them, clearly lost to drink, had muttered something incomprehensible before stumbling off in the direction of the bar, while the other gave Arthur an almost comedic, owlish look before letting out a guffaw, picked himself up from the dirt whilst whistling and laughing as Arthur had coyly tucked his chin and followed his client into the now empty shelter. As the door had closed, the man stepped in close; ready to take, and Arthur had let him.

On his back, the trick was settled close and hard between Arthur's spread thighs, not an inch to be seen between them, their bodies plastered hotly together. The john had one arm hooked underneath Arthur's head, pillowed comfortably within the crook of his elbow, his other arm scooped under the sweaty dip at the small of his back. His lips trail and press against Arthur's temple, against his damp hairline, sharp breath hot and ragged and as he fucks with deep, slow thrusts. He carves some kind of space for himself into Arthur's body, barely pulling his length out before digging his hips hard into Arthur's ass with a drawn out grind, stirring up his guts and pulling out utterly pleased whimpers and groans from Arthur's hung open mouth.

Arthur himself had been unable to do little else besides cling to the wide shoulders of the john, gripping his back for dear life, purely debauched as the man fucked him like one would a lover. Like something special and dear. And Arthur relished in it, selfish and desperate, he surrendered and opened himself up to the assault. He'd felt so wanted and desired that his heart was screaming in his chest, his ears, a drumbeat to the whirl of emotional that stirred and twisted inside his chest, high like a bird with heat beneath it's wings. Made his eyes prickle and water and his blood sing a wild song. Hit something deep within him that craves and cries for that kind of attention, to be treated with a tender attentiveness. Every bit like a tiger in a cage, showing it's belly to the hand that both feeds and tortures it, as it's the only hand it's ever known.

Then, Arthur is suddenly yanked from his soft and lovelorn thoughts when the grip that had been locked on his shoulder jumps to his neck and squeezes; hard. Fingers press rough and bruising into the soft corded flesh, so unexpected and vicious that it has Arthur gagging, a lurching cough wrung from his throat. He jerks away from the harsh clamp, throwing his weight upon his elbows and trying to twist his torso around to face and fume at the john.

An array of colorful words are collected behind his teeth, but they're all forced back down into his now aching throat when a fist is colliding with his face, straight into his mouth. Rock hard knuckles rattle his teeth and stars dance across his vision. It feels like his brain has been spun around in his skull, and the penny taste of blood slides along his tongue. Bastard can pull quite a punch for some kind of limp-wristed magnate. After a brief matter of seconds, Arthur regains his wits and shoves himself off from the old bed, forcing the john to pull out and stumble backwards, tripping over his pants, now wadded and coiled around his ankles. Arthur barks in pain when the john's prick is yanked harsh and quick from his body, igniting a burning pulse that spills down his thighs and along his back. He whirls around to face the man, expression twisted and mean.

"The hell is wrong with you?!" He shouts, spits a gob of bloody saliva to the floor and gingerly touches fingers to his throbbing jaw. Arthur expects the john to furiously mouth off at him, for him to take his precious money and storm from the room, leaving Arthur with a pitifully unsuccessful take; nothing to show for his time and effort and no degree of personal satisfaction. What he does not expect, is a knife.

It's a small but serrated blade, glinting low in the ambient light of the room. The man had pulled it from seemingly nowhere, his belt perhaps? Arthur doesn't know, but he doesn't have the time to contemplate it as the man is storming forward then, lashing out quick and wicked, the tiny blade sinking into the meat between his shoulder and left breast as clean as a butter knife through cream.

"Shit!"

Adrenaline finally seems to awaken within Arthur and with barely a thought he springs back a leg to kick hard at the john; directly to his left knee, sends him toppling to the floor with a crash, the blood slicked knife tumbling from his hand and sliding across the wood. With the knife out of the way, Arthur pulls himself away from the bed, knees weak and whining from the uncomfortable position and rough fucking. He hisses and glances down at the bleeding wound on his chest, it's not too deep, thankfully, but it's deep enough. It'll require stitching, and it burns like fire. Dark red blood, almost black, wells out from the neat little slice and rolls down his torso in thin lines.

"You stupid whore!" The man is sputtering madly as he scrambles to his feet, absolutely livid, his ugly face stained with a mean shade of red. "I told you not to look at me!"

"So you _stab_ me?!" Arthur yelps back at him, incredulous. He's dealt with some right foul johns in the past, but never quite as bad at this one.

The man snarls like a rabid hound, lunging forward with his hands scrabbling wildly at Arthur like he's out to kill him, like he wants to rip the skin from Arthur's flesh. Arthur shoves him away with a sharp jab of an elbow to his chest, lets out a bark of pain as the action pulls open the narrow stab wound, spills a fresh veil of blood down over his breast. He takes the new opening and cocks back a tightly balled fist, his right one this time, and then plows it into the john's face, sturdy ridge of his knuckles striking the john with hearty, experienced impact. The man sways for a moment, face puzzled and confused before his eyes are rolling back into their sockets and he drops like a 2 ton rock.

"Jesus," Arthur breathes out in a hot rush, stumbles a bit and then drops back down onto the bed, ancient springs crying underneath his weight. He regrets it instantly as a sharp stab of pain lances through his core, like a lick of sizzling lightening that zaps up along his spine. Arthur catches his breath and grabs a handful of the blanket, uses it to wipe away the sticky blood from his skin, is careful and deliberate with his ministrations around the tender, open wound. Disgust and shame slowly begins to wash over him, prickling along the back of his neck, heavy and black.

Here he is, naked as the day he was born; bleeding, his body used and bruised by some deranged fool. Shoulder adorned with a fresh, weeping wound, begging to be nursed.

He cradles his aching jaw and sneers down at the john; knocked out of his wits and sprawled spread eagle, looking entirely pathetic with his pants and underwear tangled around his thin ankles, soft dick resting on his thigh. Arthur pushes away from the bed, groans audibly at the dull pain that bites at his thighs and hobbles over to where he'd previously discarded his clothing and gun on the floor. He steps into his union suit and only does up about half of the buttons, bunches the rest around his waist, held in his fist as he steps over to his unconscious client. The man is practically drooling in his stupor. Arthur takes only a moment to stare hard and mean at the fool before's spitting down on him and picking his way over to that fancy jacket laid over the armchair. He roots around in all of it's pockets, internal and external, and happily secures a well stuffed money clip, an orante platinum pocket watch, and a thick velvet coin purse. 

"Sorry for not followin' your rules, partner." Arthur mocks bitterly, slowly scouring the room and digging out any more hidden valuables, stashing them away in his satchel. He pauses by the john once more to kneel; carefully and slowly, pain squirming like a snake, grabs and twists off the man's shiny gold wedding ring. Holds it up to the low light of the nearby lamp, reflecting in a shimmering smooth loop along the rich yellow band. Arthur grimaces with a long suffering sigh and stows the ring away nonetheless. He picks up the little knife from where it had landed on the floor and uses it to cut a thick strip of cloth from the rumpled blanket; he wads it up into a thick pad and presses it flush against his seeping wound, wincing as he does so. Gingerly pulls the rest of his union suit up and over his shoulders, pinning the makeshift bandage between his body and the thin cotton of his underwear, plugging the flow of blood to a serviceable degree.

Quickly, Arthur dresses into the rest of his clothing, not bothering to do any of the buttons on his flannel or overcoat, threads the familiar iron of his piece to his hip once more, secure and heavy within it's holster. He flips his hat up onto his head and quietly limps across the room, pausing to scoop up the fancy suede jacket, figures that maybe Dutch will like it. He folds it over his arm and slips out the door and into the hall. Tries to stifle the lameness in his gait. His pockets are nicely stuffed, the take warming the lining, and it wasn't an unsuccessful job by any means. Arthur should feel accomplished, finding comfort in the fact that he has something to bring back to his people, but in all honesty he's doesn't think it'd be possible for him to feel any more pathetic in that moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and such are very welcomed and appreciated, and encourage me to keep working! If you're one of the people who was reading the older version of this, welcome back and I am sorry for leaving you all hanging.
> 
> John - slang term for a sex worker's client  
> Saddle tramp - term for a "nomadic" cowboy


	2. no tail feathers left

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are brief references to in-game events in this chapter, explicitly the mission "A Strange Kindness"

The sun is barely peaking in the sky as Arthur approaches camp; sending a bar of white light to lay low and milky on the horizon. The camp itself is hidden and secure within the open, green glade of Clemen's Point, shielded from prying eyes by thickly crowded trees and the wide waters of Flat Iron Lake. 

He had wanted to return before daylight broke; with Rhodes being a mere hour or so from where the gang was currently sleeping rough, Arthur had figured that he would have ample time to slip off and into the town to try and find someone that would be interested in his services. It had been late and dark when he rode into the dusty red settlement, the sky a net with glittering little stars. After midnight, when the men were practically crawling on their hands and knees out from the saloon, three sheets to the wind. Arthur certainly had been able to hook a prospective client, but the night hadn't played out at all like he'd initially planned. He had dealt with johns who liked to be rough during sex in the past; Arthur himself did not particularly enjoy the treatment, but was willing to tolerate some light aggression, if only for the sake of earning money and not losing any business. He was never left with any serious bruises, was never pushed beyond his own personal pain limit. No punching, no choking, no bleeding. And yet all of those things had happened all in one trick turn.

This recent john, deep pocketed bastard that he was, hadn't mentioned any particular proclivities toward hard behavior while fucking. He hadn't really mentioned any proclivities at all for that matter. Arthur had even asked him, been as professional as a tramp could be anyhow, and made it clear and crystal that anything 'special' needed to be plainly laid out _before_ the bedroom door was closed. The rich bastard, tight lipped and jumpy, had barely said anything to Arthur other than a tersely spat out, "I'm the one who's givin', I ain't no woman."

The foul attitude, Arthur could have very well dealt without, but there'd been nothing for it. Personally, he preferred receiving during sex anyway; didn't care one lick if it put him in what most men would see as the 'woman's place.' For Arthur, it all scratched a very deeply buried itch, being desired in that way, even so by strangers. It squeezed his heart like a vice and filled his chest with a hazy warmth.

But the night had ended in utter disaster, the twisted hand of horrible luck that Arthur's been dealt bleeding into every little facet of his life. Chewing him up and spitting him out here, balanced in a precarious crouch over the rippling back of his horse; Pearl, all of his body weight packed stiff into his throbbing thighs as he holds himself braced over the saddle, the stirrups doing their damndest to stay firm under the burden. He drives his animal at a slow, ambling trot so that the many aches and pains that have settled into his body don't get exacerbated by the jostling that a gallop would require. The makeshift bandages stamped over his wound have bled through, sopping and heavy with blood. He can feel the hot, tickling rivulets roll down over his quivering stomach and collect in a sticky mess at his belt line. And there's a sharp, jabbing pain that radiates below his tailbone, throbbing down to his knees and up his spine with each hurried beat of his heart. It's downright embarrassing really; has Arthur's face going all hot, his shoulders hunching up close to his ears. Arthur reckons it'll be a tough few days moving forward, he'll have to try and hide all of his shiny new injuries, but Hosea always seems to have a nose for those things. He'd notice a tremor from the other side of the camp.

As Arthur rides into the shaded trail that twists down toward their camp, he eases his butt down onto the seat of the saddle, wincing and hissing out as even lightly sitting on the thing sends a sharp shock up his back. He sighs heavily and tugs his hat down low over his sweaty brow, face twisting into a grimace as he begins to make out the shape of someone leaning against a tree some distance ahead, the cherry red glow of their cigarette a bright little beacon in the blue morning darkness. He shouldn't really be surprised that someone is on watch, should have expected and prepared for it accordingly. Should have maybe taken the long away around and rode along the shore, sneaking back into camp by the stillness of the lake. But in his haste and humiliation, he had completely forgotten such a glaring factor.

"Who's there?" They call out roughly as he approaches, and Arthur visibly relaxed at the familiar, smooth voice. It's Charles. He'd be loathe to face down Bill or God forbid John right now, roughed up and beat down as he is. "It's Arthur," he says back, quiet, the words snagging along his throat on the way out, heavy tongue and gums throbbing. He gives a light tug to Pearl's reigns to slow down her pace as Charles takes a step away from the tree, rifle slung around his wide shoulders and a cigarette hanging from his lips, waxy orange light illuminating his strong features. "Hey," he greets, gruff pretense dropping at the arrival of his acquaintance. Pulls the cig away and stubs it out on the heel of his boot before tossing the spent stick away. "Didn't even know you were out."

"Yeah," Arthur replies on a light sigh, scratches the back of his neck. "Just some little business in town, took longer than I thought it would."

"Uh-huh," Charles says, giving Arthur a curious look. "Are you okay?"

Needless to say, it's a question that has Arthur blinking in quiet surprise, he stares at Charles for a few slow, awkward moments before responding with a muted, "huh?"

Charles lifts a hand to make a loose gesture toward his own face. "You've got blood on you," he explains, the corner of his mouth twisting into a little smirk before dropping into a more serious line. "Hope you didn't stir up any trouble in Rhodes.

Arthur looks away, sheepish. He tips his chin down and kicks gently at Pearl's flanks to get her moving forward again, she knickers a bit at the light nudge and sets a pace down the trail. "Was just some business," Arthur tries to assure, voice plain. "Got a little dirty but I handled it." He doesn't wait for Charles to respond, just rides around the hairpin turn that feeds into the waterfront glade. He urges his horse in the direction of the nearest hitch, dismounting slow and careful from her back, hisses behind his teeth when the shock of his feet thumping on the ground sends a hard snap of pain up from his lower abdomen, practically pulsing up into his throat. Arthur then braces his left hand at his lower back, seeking support, and foolishly irritating the stab wound over his breast, as he'd seemingly forgotten about it that, too. Too distracted. He groans angrily to himself and presses his heated forehead against Pearl's strong shoulder, her hair coarse and cool, with his right hand curled over the horn of her saddle. "You're a mess, Morgan." He mutters bitterly to himself, ties the reigns to the hitch before pulling away from the animal and cautiously picking a path toward the medical wagon, takes slow and deliberate steps, biting his lip as he moves.

As to not wake the slumbering Miss Grimshaw or Herr Strauss, Arthur takes his sweet time to carefully pull out an old bottle of iodine, a wad of scratchy bandages, and a needle and thread from within the warmed cabinet of the wagon, as well as grabbing a half empty bottle of gin. He makes the decision to lick his wounds away from the camp, out of sight and away from nosy questions, should anyone happen to wake up. It was unlikely, given that it was still just the beginnings of morning, but there were some in the camp that were known to rise early. The thought of curling up on his cot and sinking away into a much needed sleep inspires a little kick in his step as he makes his way down the dark shore line, cold lake water pressing over the sand in small, gentle waves.

Once Arthur is far enough away, he's cursing at himself when he realizes that he'll have to sit down in order to properly tend to his wounds. He opts for the softer sand closer to the water, eases himself down, slow and easy like some kind of geriatric; blows a loud breath out from pursed lips with his head tilted back, eyes on the fading stars. He dumps his armful of supplies onto the ground next to himself, then knocks his hat back, setting it aside as well. Carefully, he begins to wind out of his shirt, face twisting up in pain at the bite that the movement sends through his shoulder. Once the shirt is removed, he unpins the handful of buttons on his union suit and peels the wet fabric away from his gently weeping wound, he wrangles out of the thing and rolls it down to his waist, skin prickling in the chilled air. Lastly, Arthur removes the shredded cloth that he'd previously used to staunch the bleeding, tosses the soaked strips into the hungry lake before him. Watches them spread along the surface and stain the water, blood spreading like oil.

He grabs the bottle of gin, unscrews the little cap and tosses that into the churning lake as well, swallows down the acerbic liquid in a quick fit, burning as it twists it's way down to his belly, dribbling over his chin and down his neck. Arthur exhales loudly after the long drag, shoves bottle into the sand and then simply sits there for a moment. He tilts his head to stare hard at the sky; eyes on the ever rising sun, pale blades of light flickering and rising over the darkened waters. Birds are starting to wake up and sing their songs, lonesome at first, as only a few break the still silence of dawn, though it will eventually build into a chorus as the sun climbs higher. He can spot a few birds darting over top of the water, feeding on the insects that begin to gather there in clouds.

There's a hazy, early morning mist that starts to roll off from the cold waters and settle into the trees, over the camp. As Arthur looks on, he's able to make out the shapes of the wagons in the distance, turned to fuzzy gray silhouettes while the permeating fog is emblazoned with the white light of the sun's face. It's all so pleasant and quaint, and it only serves to make Arthur feel even more pitiable and ugly. He looks down at his legs, sprawled out in the sand in front of him, his upper lip curls into something mean.

"You're a fool," he bemoans himself with a sigh, "a stupid, old fool."

He means to lean back onto his hand, uninjured side, but as his fingers slide over a smooth stone, Arthur finds himself curling them around it's cool surface. It fits almost perfectly into his palm, he turns it over for a moment before winding back his arm and throwing the rock across the water as hard as he can. It's swallowed up easily by the indifferent waters of the lake, white teeth snatching it up like a dog to scraps, sinking it to the bottom in an instant. The splash startles a few ducks that had been milling around the shallows, and they frantically squawk and scrabble in their haste to fly away.

Arthur sits there for longer than he'd meant to, supping on the gin until the bottle is emptied, his blood sizzling and cheeks tingling as the liquor starts to take effect. It'll make things easier. Before Arthur can really start to treat himself, he hears someone tromping down the bank after him. He freezes, prays hard that it's not Dutch or Hosea, and risks a glance over his shoulder. The apprehension releases when he sees that it's only Charles; again, who then stops in his tracks when their eyes meet.

"Ain't you on watch?" Arthur asks him, looks away quickly and snatches up the bottle of iodine.

"Was," Charles tells him in that terse and plain way of his; like it's all the words he can bare to speak aloud. "Sean's on now."

Now that beats a tired, but sardonic chuckle out from Arthur's chest, "really? _This_ early?"

It's at least a stab at the cloying tension, and then Charles is closing the short distance between them, leaning in to look careful at the small wound that's dug out between Arthur's shoulder and pec, congealed blood smeared around the gash. "Surprising, I know." He murmurs lowly, bends down to seat himself down on the sand at Arthur's side. "Seems like Hosea knocked some sense into him."

Arthur chortles, says "He's knocked sense into all of us at some point." His mouth quirking upward in fondness at the thought of the older man. It drops after a few seconds however, and Arthur is shaking himself from his mild stupor and unscrewing the cap from the bottle of iodine, clumsily dribbling it over his wound with an unsteady hand, grimacing as he does so. Excess liquid tumbles and spills down his chest, catching along his chest hair and staining his skin with an oily shade of orange-brown. "Shit."

"Need help?" Charles asks him, leaning in a bit, elbows on his knees. Rich brown eyes slide from the ragged stab wound to the vivid bruising that's bloomed along Arthur's chin and jaw, the thick split opening up his bottom lip. There's dried blood cracking and clinging around the corners of his mouth, dark and sticky in the stubbly hair there.

Arthur sighs heavily, then hands Charles the bottle in a hang dog gesture. "Sure," he says, quiet, tries not to mumble it out. Beneath the dull throb of pain that pulses under his skin, he can feel heat beginning to fill his cheeks. A messy mix of the gin he'd drank, embarrassment, and the pure proximity to the other man. Arthur quite liked Charles, appreciated that he never really seemed interested in running his mouth or throwing his weight around like a handful of the other men back in the camp did. He had a humble but somber air about him, and he and Arthur got along pretty well, never really seemed to butt heads over anything and understood each other's nature to a pleasant degree. It almost felt like Charles was able to see straight through Arthur's flesh to his very soul sometimes. 

_"You ain't as tough and dense as all that_ ," Charles had told him, scant weeks ago, when they'd been combing through the warmed wilderness of Lemoyne in search of a new place to lay low, after Arthur had attempted to ignore the needs of that desperate German family. The words had stuck through his skin like a dart, and it only served to remind Arthur of both his own foul nature, and Charles' scathing intuitiveness. It was only a few words shy of a full sentence, but it set something cooking along under Arthur's heart. So, he quite liked Charles. But yet he found it hard to look him in the eye during quiet moments such as this, and not because of anything that Charles had said or done. The blame was squarely placed upon himself of course.

It had been a month or so prior to the nightmare that was the Blackwater heist, several days over three months ago by today's date, that the culminating moment of this blame had taken place. The gang had been settled out upon the gently sloping lands of the Great Plains, surrounded by a wide, waving sea of pale yellow grasses. Stretching and rolling as far as one could see. They had just pulled a very successful robbery on a small wagon train that had been trundling out from the city, laden with supplies and likely headed toward a trading post nestled in the forest beyond the plains. They'd cut if off several miles from it's destination, and had made away with a heavy take of stowed cash, as well as plenty of food and medical supplies. Needless to say, everyone had been in a very good mood that evening, and as the sun had sunk down low and hot over the dusty prairie, the atmosphere melted into something playful and joyous.

Cases of fine liquor were cracked open, and the bottles within were quickly distributed amongst the thirsty outlaws and triumphantly emptied. Old rebel and folk songs were belted out in slurred voices around a warm, crackling fire; Javier more than happy to provide some well crafted strums from his guitar. Sean and Lenny cackled drunkenly in each other's face at a joke they'd already forgotten, arms slung sloppily over one another's shoulders as they stumbled to the chuckwagon for a bite. Uncle was trying to tell another bullshit story of his, sprawled on his back with his fingers right around the neck of an empty bottle. Dutch overlooked it all with a sort of proud, royal air; cigar in his hand and his new belle, Molly, hanging from one arm. She looks up at him like he's hung the moon and stars just for her.

Arthur himself was particularly elated then, enough hooch bubbling through his system to have him drunkenly staggering around the camp, grinning widely like a chessy cat, passing out heavy hugs to anyone that he was able to catch in his arms and chanting his way through whatever song was currently being lilted over the peaceful party. He barely knew the words to a decent handful of them, but he was too damn happy and dumb and drunk to really care about anything else in that moment; other than enjoying some hard earned leisurely time with his family.

He'd found himself sweetly approaching Charles, who was still somewhat new to the gang but was definitely not fresh faced to this kind of life. The man had been relatively quiet and reserved through the mirthful festivities, drinking peacefully to himself, sat on the outside of the warm glow of the fire, just watching. He had sat himself down heavily next to Charles, throws back the last burning mouthful of his whiskey and tosses the bottle aside to the dirt, "how're you Charles?" Arthur asks, a little loudly, neck rolling along his shoulders to look at him. He idly plucks at his loose shirt, sticking to his skin, sweating and warm in the slowly dwindling heat of the late evening.

Charles had looked over at him with a particular softness, smiled just a bit. "I'm fine, Arthur." He replies, takes a swig from the beer he'd been nursing, eyes out on the celebrating gang members.

Arthur nods, following his gaze, still grinning. "'S great, real great." He says, leans in with his hands hanging between his knees, pulls a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his back pocket and nips one out with his teeth, offers the pack toward Charles. Charles merely shakes his head politely and hold his hand up in an open gesture, "no thanks."

"'Course," Arthur says around his cigarette with a shrug, curls his fingers around the thin stick to protect the flame as he lights it. Once it's lit he takes a heavy drag and shakes the match out, blows the smoke from his lungs in a deep, casual billow. The pleasant buzz of the tobacco filling up his already quite addled brain. He leans back over the crate that he's sat on, boozy and warm; spreads his legs before him easy like and clears his dry throat. "So, Charles, you fancy a little stitch?" He asks bluntly, looks to the other man in an expectant and sly fashion, cigarette dangling low from his slack, slightly parted lips.

Charles blinks wide at him then, a small quirk knitting itself between the stretch of his eyebrows. A beat of silence passes between them before he says, lowly. "Excuse me?"

Immediately, regret. Arthur freezing like he's been doused with chilled water, cutting through the haze of alcohol and mirth that had been clouding his brain. It burns hot and heavy, feels so suddenly suffocating and tight within his chest that Arthur is turning away with a rapid jerk, tilting his head down and averting his eyes. He snatches the cigarette away from his mouth and stubs the thing out on the crate beneath him, throws it into the surrounding underbrush. "Um," he starts abortedly, tries to find a proper and painless way to explain himself. He lifts a hand to scratch rough at the prickling back of his neck, wishing desperately that he was just a little more sober in that moment. If he'd had any degree of sobriety, he likely wouldn't have even suggested such a thing, no matter how fiercely the question burned inside. "It's uh, a thing that I do."

"A thing?"

Arthur shrugs weakly, clears his throat again and turns away a little more, tilts his head back and pretends to find the darkening sky mighty interesting. He kicks at the empty bottle of whiskey that he'd dropped previously. "Yeah." He answers flatly, pressing slightly quivering lips together and deciding to just leave it at that. Charles clearly wasn't interested in such deviance, hopefully he wasn't offended in any way by the offer, and Arthur felt truly stupid. He couldn't even look Charles in the eye.

"Well," Charles starts to say, there's a put off stunt in his voice, "uh, I- no thank you." It's simple and to the point, but not nearly as furious and disgusted as Arthur thought that he might be, so there had been that at least. It definitely would not have been the first time that someone had blown up in indignation at a similar offer from Arthur.

After that, Arthur had wasted no time in hauling his behind up from the crate and stumbling away from Charles in drunk mortification, ignoring any curious looks thrown his way. In that moment, there's nothing more that he can do other than hide away in the dark safety of his tent like a guilty dog. When morning had unfortunately arrived, bright and blinding over the plains, he had almost forgotten about the whole thing. Almost. Awareness slowly drew to him, eyelids red by the morning light that lay heavy over his face. His stomach roiling painfully under the mercy of his hangover, his head pounding to the point of watery eyes, temples feeling as if they're going to burst under the throbbing rhythm that pulsates through his skull. There's a nervous tremor that dances along his skin at the thought of having to face Charles after what he's done. But to his immense relief and apparent luck, Charles seemed to act as if the exchange never happened. It obviously _did_ , Arthur hadn't been drunk enough as to misremember the night that severely, but Charles seemed content to brush it off as nothing more than a moment of inebriation. Arthur was still left to wallow within the heavy aftermath of it, but at least Charles wasn't about to give him a hard time.

Sleeping with some of his fellow gang members was not a wholly common experience for Arthur, he'd only done it twice. Once, and not without tangible regret, with Bill, and then later with Javier. Not an equally regrettable experience but one that had simply happened, left little good impressions, and as such was to be moved on from. 

Both men had initially propositioned Arthur, had even paid him for it as well. Bill fumbling sloppily around his words and refusing to meet Arthur's eyes, slipping into some meaningless preamble that had Arthur telling him to cut the shit and get on with it already. Some time after they'd finally come to an agreement, they'd left the camp at separate hours during the early evening, Bill riding off first, and then Arthur following suit later on. They'd met at some low down little saloon that doubled as both a trading post and a hotel, they'd drank until they were both comfortable enough to tolerate being along together, barely able to see straight and stumbling up the stairs toward the room that Bill had paid for. It was rather thoughtless, the sex they'd had, and Arthur had scantly even remembered it, nearly asleep within his drunkenness with Bill plastered heavy and hot to his back, sweating and practically crying while he fucked him. Afterward, about a day or so once they'd sufficiently sobered up and were actually able to look at each other once more, they'd solidly agreed to never do that again and to pretend that it hadn't even happened.

With Javier, the encounter had been different. Better; similar in that they'd done it far away from camp, hidden away in a locked hotel room, several hours ride out from where the gang had been posted. There'd been some minor but meaningful communication, Javier speaking to him in a low and soft voice. That night had ended with Javier laid out on his back with Arthur seated in the cradle of his hips, Javier's prick rigid and greedy inside his stomach. Javier had looked up at him with some kind of reverence, deft hands skating and petting over Arthur's hips, up the expanse of his stomach and over the swell of his breasts. It was... tender, and sweet. And Arthur had enjoyed it, though the pure intensity of it had almost been too much. He knew that no good would come of them making a habit out of this, however, and had said as much to Javier after the fact.

It felt natural in that moment, really, for Arthur to ask Charles if he was interested, but it simply wasn't so. He'd known both Bill and Javier for several years before anything had happened between them, and Charles wasn't just some random john picked up from the streets. Even though Charles had never brought it up, and never had any thought to treat Arthur differently afterward, Arthur himself just couldn't let it go. He was happy to spend time with Charles sure, could more than stand to share a meal with him or go on a bout of hunting, but thoughts of his past fumble still remained, sticky and uncomfortable in the back of his mind.

Arthur keeps his gaze down and away, steady on the relaxed waves of the lake, recoiling slightly as Charles uses a wad of gauze to wipe away the tacky mixture of blood and iodine from his skin, mindfully cleaning the wound with skilled hands. Carefully, he threads the needle and dips his head downward a bit to try and meet Arthur's flitting gaze, "I'm going to stitch it closed now." He says, lifting his other hand to lay it flat and warm over Arthur's collar.

Arthur nods, shifts a bit in a place and angles his torso a little more toward Charles to allow him better access to the wound, bracing his weight firm to the ground with his right arm. The first stitch is always the worst, and Arthur flinches as the cold needle is hooked underneath his already aching skin, the burning nerves sizzle at the sharp tug. "Sorry," Charles is murmuring at him, keeps his hands as gentle as he can while he knits Arthur's skin back together, working in a carefully practiced grace. There's only a few ticks between them before Charles is speaking again, his voice still low. "What was it?"

"What was what?"

Arthur risks a glance up at Charles, and is given a bland look for his trouble. Arthur looks away, sighs breathily and runs a hand through his hair, tangled and sweaty. He could use a bath soon. "A trick," he admits, no real point in trying to hide it any further, not when Charles can read him like a book, likely has it all figured out by now. Most everyone in the gang knows it just as well too, Arthur thinks, of his habit of whoring. With the exception of young Jack of course, as well as Kieran now. New to the gang that he is. No one _really_ bothers him about it none, as it's not really their place to do so, unless they fancy taking a good long look in a mirror. Micah of course will needle him about it every chance that he can get, Arthur wouldn't expect any less from the slimy devil, as he seems to truly enjoy getting underneath Arthur's skin. To his credit however, Micah had yet to try propositioning him; and Arthur would rather fuck an angry steer.

Miss Grimshaw and Hosea are, predictably, a bit anal-retentive about it. Not in a horrible or overtly obnoxious way though, as Arthur is clearly an adult who can make his own choices and do as he likes, but these facts don't quite stop Grimshaw from harping at him to be a little more selective about the johns that he beds. Tells Arthur that if he's going to sleep around for money, that he should at least do it with the richest, most well off people he could possibly find. Hosea simply wanted Arthur to be safe about the whole thing, given the general treatment of 'business' folk such as himself by society at large. Though, Arthur has to laugh at that; as it's purely ironic given the kind of life that they all live, but he honestly appreciates the gesture nonetheless.

Abigail, bless her sweet heart, always finds the time to corner and check up on him. To the manner-born herself, with this particular trade.

"It turned sour," he elaborates further, mouth twisting into a frown as he recalls what had happened. "Trick got a little rough, nothin' special."

Charles let out a brusque scoff at that, ties off the stitches with a tight little knot. He rolls the soiled gauze around the bloody needle and sets the bundle aside, he then picks up a fresh spool of bandages and begins to carefully wind the material around Arthur's shoulder and over the sealed wound. "You got stabbed," he says plainly, nudges Arthur's elbow to get him to lift his arm up a bit. Arthur shrugs his good shoulder, looks down at his dirty finger nails. "Things go bad sometimes. So it goes."

"It ain't right," Charles says in a lame, strained way. He wraps the gauze over itself in a neat, clean layers, ties away slack end of it just so over the solid line of Arthur's collarbone. "You shouldn't have to put up with that."

Arthur shakes his head, snorting ruefully. "You can't change it," he says as he distractedly picks at the sand, fiddles with a tiny shard from a broken shell. The little chip is a soft, peachy pink color, and Arthur wonders to himself what it might have looked like when it was part of a whole. "It ain't a bad way to earn some money," he tells Charles matter-of-factly, "and it don't exactly run the risk of me gettin' a bullet in my skull." He flicks the bit of shell away after saying his piece, the shell bit skitters lightly across the sand and is swallowed into the bubbly waves as it breaks over the shore line.

"You sure about the that?" Charles asks, eyes pinning heavy over Arthur's bandaged up shoulder. He then hauls himself up from the ground and pats the dust off from his pants. Arthur squints up at him, at a loss, unable to think of a proper response. He looks away after a moment, that shame beginning to creep up on him once again. Arthur twists around and grabs his discarded shirt and hat, braces a weak hand over his thigh and slowly rises up, choked wheeze catching in his throat at that telltale pain that radiates below his tail bone, lashing out cruelly as if only to remind him that it's still there. He doesn't miss the way that Charles raises one of his hands, holds it in an almost nervous hover near Arthur's side should he need the support. Pointedly ignoring the silent offer and forcing himself to look Charles in the eye, feeling more or less pinned where he stands by the dark, stormy gaze, Arthur says to him "You should get some rest, Charles." And then slides past him toward his tent, walks up the bank in slow steps to mind his pain, shoulders hunched a bit as he feels Charles' gaze planted hot and close on his back.

The gang is starting to stir and wake as Arthur hobbles weakly to his tent, quiet and sleepy commotion as folk begin to pull themselves from bed and set about their morning tasks. He tosses his filthy shirt atop his closed clothing chest, drops his hat heavily on the table aside his cot. With a quick motion, Arthur turns on his heel and tugs at the ropes that hold his tent open, the heavy canvas falling closed and swinging low to hang around his small living space, shielding him in a dark, warm clutch. An illusion of privacy, if nothing else.

Arthur makes the somewhat forlorn decision to keep the sleeves of his underwear down and looped around his waist, wouldn't be able to wrangle himself back into the damn things anyhow on account of his bum shoulder, stiff and achy beneath Charles' tight wrappings. Arthur squirms out of his pants and slowly dumps himself down onto his cot with a whimpered groan, lays himself back against the sturdy nylon with his left arm rigid at his side. Yanking a threadbare blanket up and over his body; pooling it about his ribs, he lets out a shaky breath, utterly exhausted.

Hopefully, as the day passes, Dutch and Mrs. Grimshaw will see the clearly closed canvas keeping him secluded and leave him be for a bit. Arthur doesn't think that he has it in him to face anyone else just yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any typos are my own, I always scour my work to try and find them all but a few usually always slip past my ADHD ass.
> 
> Comments and such are very much appreciated!


	3. ride for the brand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains allusions/references to underaged sex

Arthur had turned his first trick when he had been little more than a boy, just fourteen maybe, a few months short of fifteen. The specifics of it all are hazy after so many years past, but he remembers the important parts of it, the ones that matter to him in any case. After his daddy had died upon the knotted end of a noose, and before he'd been picked up by Dutch and Hosea. Dirty, twiggy little orphan forced to live on the streets; abandoned and homeless once the meager, obligatory care his father provided to him had been stripped away. Picking poorly guarded pockets and nearly begging for table scraps from the open doors of eateries. Veritably squirming through his own filth and struggling to just simply live; his then short, tender life narrowed down into a focused and simple thread, corded tightly to the objective of pure survival. Not totally unlike an animal.

It had been late in the night, heat hazy and oppressive over the relatively large port-town that Arthur was living rough out of, long shadows cast across the dark brown dirt of the road, blackened bars pulled heavy over the tightly packed Earth. Arthur had been skulking around the outside of a saloon, lingering like a wayward cat, droopy eyed in hunger and exhaustion, prowling for any vulnerable drunkards. His eyes darting and fingers itching to snatch at anything loose that he could take; inebriated men stumbling out from the old swinging doors and down the stairs of the porch, howling and slurring their way onto the streets. Men in such a state were easy to pick, mostly. Ignorant to anything but the wild mare's milk burning hot holes in their bellies. If they happened to catch Arthur in the act of his thievery, they were often too far gone to land a solid hit on him or grab him before he was able to spring away.

That night, one of the men had taken steady notice of him however. And, oddly, had gestured for Arthur to step a bit closer rather than shooing him away. The memories after that point had gotten fuzzy and displaced, unfocused snapshots of what had occurred sit in the back of his mind like old photographs. He'd let the man lead him away to a secluded place, the backroom of the saloon that he had wobbled out from. The man offered him money, mumbling sloppily that he'd make sure the boy 'would be well fed', and Arthur had accepted it of course. Hungry, desperate, and very much none the wiser to the wag-tail impression the man had had of him. 

He'd laid Arthur on his back along an old cot, laden with small holes and brittle with age. Arthur's clothing was swiftly pulled from his body, and he lay still and quiet under the hands of the man, his face hot and unsure. Then there was a needy mouth pressing over his thighs and stomach, and it had felt weird, made Arthur's guts twist up in a new, queer way that he hadn't ever felt before. He didn't really remember what he'd been thinking back in that moment, what exactly he was feeling, but the promise of receiving enough money to swell his wallet had sang so charmingly to him that he was willing to remain in a sober, even tempered state underneath the man's strange yet reverential touch.

Arthur cannot say what had really happened after that; only truly and dearly remembers the way that the man had touched his body. Soft; like he was something deserving of careful and deft contact, like he was something that _mattered_ enough to be treated gently. He felt bashful about it all, and it made his burning heart throb with a desperate feeling; a feeling that he has been craving and chasing after ever since. After that evening, he'd been given two dollars for a job well done. Enough to net him a hearty, warm meal; or a cozy bed to sleep in for the night, or even a sturdy new jacket.

It had been so damn easy, almost shockingly so. Arthur hadn't even needed to do anything other than to be compliant and easy under the unfamiliar ministrations, and yet he'd walked away from the job with nearly more money than he knew what to do with.

In the time that followed that night, Arthur had decided to carry on with the whore's work, though he didn't properly understand it all, at least in the first month or so. He'd continued with such labors even after he began to follow in Dutch's footsteps. He and Hosea had fed and taken care of him; and yet despite that, when the opportunity arose, Arthur would find himself slipping away from whatever meager camp they'd set up. Under the cover of night, he would creep toward the closest township and into bed with more nameless men; knees to his ears or his face pressed hard into a pillow, slip caught in the tightened vice of his teeth. He would then walk back into camp with his soul held within a honey smooth bliss, maybe a limp in his step depending, and a fistful of dollars burning a pretty little spot in his pocket. Dutch and Hosea were always subsequently curious about his escapades, but were nonetheless pleased and proud at the healthy amount of money Arthur would bring back with him, comforting hands laid over his neck and shoulders. They didn't always ask, but whenever they did, Arthur'd tell them that he'd simply been out robbing.

It wasn't necessarily a lie, Arthur was still a thief to be sure, and a damn good one at that. He enjoyed robbing those who deserved it, especially when the three of them would go out and steal together; running wild through the night with their hands full and breath streaming from widely fenced grins. But, he still couldn't seem to wean away from selling himself every now and then, not that he was really keen on putting a stop to the habit anyhow.

They'd found out eventually, Hosea and Dutch. When Arthur was just seventeen, nearing eighteen. He'd been sloppy about it, had usually always tried his best to keep his whoring hidden away from the men that he'd grown to strongly care for and look up to. Arthur had been terrified at how they would react, should they find out; could imagine the disdain on their faces. He felt that they would likely lose any respect they'd held for him, would maybe even kick him out of their little gang. What Arthur would do if it came to that, he doesn't know. As hard as it would be to verbalize this truth in words, the two of them had become home to him, and the thought of losing that comfort and stability for a second time struck heavy at his heart. Spiked his anxiety high and beyond solace. So for that it was always imperative that he held his secret close and safe.

On the night that they'd learned the truth, Arthur was drunk. Predictably, hazy and staggering his way through what was supposed to be the design of a job. Heavily fuddled by several shots of forty-rod, he'd been much less careful and particular than he should have been. They were in a bar, Dutch and Hosea hunkered down at a table in a private corner, speaking lowly to one another and planning out a small robbery on some rich fellar that lived on the outskirts of the settlement they were passing through. Arthur had grown rather bored of the dull talk, left the two of them to figure it out amongst themselves and moseyed over to the bar counter. He started throwing back drinks, heavy ones, and had ended up supping one too many. It hadn't been long before Arthur was half gone; seeing snakes, with his body slouched almost comfortably over the flat of the counter, grinning stupidly to himself. Without really thinking too hard about it at all, he pulled himself away from the bar and began to wander around the warm, crowded room. Asking other patrons if they fancied a poke, for a decent price of course.

Mostly they had simply turned him down or shoved him away, with the seventh or so man finally acquiescing with a shrug, mildly interested and drinking down the rest of his whiskey. He'd hauled himself up, the other men huddled around the table tossing randy looks between their companion and the painted-cat that had approached them. Hooking an arm over Arthur's shoulders, long fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket, he ferried Arthur across the premises and out the door. Arthur himself was completely addled, barely standing on his feet and content to be dragged along by the stranger, head full of cotton and foggy with bold liquor, warm with the promise of a decent fuck and some money to boot.

"Arthur?"

An achingly familiar voice is then snapping some awareness through that fog, a brilliant lighthouse beam over a rough sea, and it has Arthur stumbling over his feet, landing on his knees in the sopping mud. It takes everything he has to not look over his quivering shoulder, at Dutch, who Arthur knows must be standing some short distance behind him. If he looks to the tall, white picket fence sprawling a few feet before him, Arthur can see his shadow standing stark against it, framed by the yellow light that billows out from the windows and the swung open door of the bar. Through the murky daze of drunkenness, mortification begins to roll in like an angry storm cloud. He shrinks down a bit into the mud, cold and wet through his jeans.

"Clear off, I got 'im first." The man is slurring, stepping away from Arthur and presumably toward Dutch. A cautious hand brushes against Arthur's shoulder, and he flinches, shys away and looks up from beneath his brows. Blinks through wide blurry eyes up at Hosea, who looks upon him with a stony face; wordlessly pulls him up from the slick ground to his feet, placing one hand firm on his shoulder and the other against the small of his back to keep him steady.

"No," Arthur hears Dutch say bluntly, the liquid drawl of his voice clear through the brisk night air, "he's drunk, and our responsibility. If anyone is _clearin' off_ , it's _you_."

There's a rough scoff from the man, and a beat of silence. Arthur imagines a hard stare-down, or a flash of iron, but it's then followed by uneven footsteps and angry muttering, fading off down the street. At least no one had gotten shot over this. And Arthur is frozen, glued to where he stands as if anchored by mighty roots, unable to move despite Hosea gently attempting to prod him forward. He shrinks in on himself when Dutch appears at his other side, clapping a hand hard over Arthur's shoulder.

"Come on," he's saying, softly pushes Arthur toward the hitch where their horses are docked. "You best sleep this off."

In a cooperative effort, they manage to shove Arthur up onto Hosea's saddle. He's sat in a boneless slouch behind Hosea, arms loosely draped around his waist. Arthur's horse, Boadicea, follows behind them with her lead tied to the dee ring, and they steer out of the filthy little town and off toward the relative seclusion of their camp.

The ride that comes after is dreadfully silent, and Arthur could do little else but press his clammy forehead to the back of Hosea's shoulder as they go, not quite sure whether the nauseous wedge that's beginning to boil within his stomach is from the rocking sway of the horse beneath him, or if it's from the white hot humiliation at being caught in such a situation. Likely both.

"Think he even knew what he was doin'?" Arthur hears Hosea ask in a quiet voice; lamely muted through his stuffed up brain, but he can still hear Hosea regardless, despite his efforts to speak lowly. He can feel the hum of it through the man's back, and it makes Arthur bury his head in closer against Hosea's shoulder.

"I don't know," Dutch says, answer stunted and a little harder to make out, as he's riding a few feet ahead. He waits a moment or two before adding, "Ain't really our business, who he hauls ashes with."

"Of course not; but it _is_ when he's too inebriated to know what's goin' on."

Dutch chuckles sardonically, a deep jutter in his chest. "Well, I can't really argue with that. But you know what they say, Hosea, ' _Young cowboys had a great fear_ -'"

"Do not finish that sentence for God's sake."

The rest of the ride had been nothing but a murky blur, Arthur didn't remember riding into the copse that hid their tents, nor did he remember being hauled from the back of Hosea's horse and subsequently laid down onto his bed roll. But it had happened evidently, as he eventually wakes up face down on the old padded thing, still dressed in his muddy clothing from the previous night although his boots have been pulled off. There's an ice pick pressure against his temples, pounding and working mercilessly, his stomach rent in borderline agony. The entire night prior being little more than a drunken haze in his freshly woken mind.

Arthur groans, whines, rakes hands through his greasy hair and crawls off from his bedroll like a worm, seeking out water. His pain-narrowed gaze locks with Dutch and Hosea, who both look up at his sudden movement. They're both sat around a low burning fire, red burning coals on a chalky bed of ash. It's morning yet, maybe 10 A.M. by the height of the sun; soft yellow light that filters in through the whistling boughs above and dappling the forest floor. As two pairs of eyes snap to him, Arthur halts in his weakened crawl, buries his face into his arms with a sad little wail.

"I'm sorry..."

Dutch barks out a laugh at that, stands up from the rock he'd been sat on and cuts across the space between himself and Arthur, crouching at his side and helping to drag him toward the fire. "The first of many similar experiences, to be sure." He says in a wry voice, settling back onto his seat and handing a tin flask to Arthur, who'd pulled himself into a slumped cross-legged fashion near the rock ring that was curled around the weak flames.

He takes a little sniff of the open mouth of the flask, the liquid within sloshing around. He flinches away as if stung, the acidic scent of brandy burning it's way up his nostrils and making his headache swell with a sudden ferocity, stomach recoiling in absolute protest. But, hair of the dog that bit you and all that, so he takes a swig anyway. It's like a punch to the gut, and Arthur coughs and shakes out his head, face screwed up with displeasure. Hosea is quick to snatch away the flask then, dumps it out onto the dirt and gives Dutch a pointed look. He passes Arthur a canteen that had been set aside, thankfully full of fresh and cold water; he sloppily downs half of it within a matter of seconds. The water is a cooling balm to the fire that burns him from both ends, and he's grateful for it.

"Want to tell us about last night?" Hosea asks him once he's done drinking, leans forward on a knee and fixes Arthur with a steady blue gaze.

"What?" Arthur asks, wiping excess water from his chin with his sleeve before going very still, the memories from last night beginning to creep up, ugly and unwelcome, a prickle starting to settle over his skin. The heat that had been heavy in his gut starting to feel rather cold.

"Nothin'. It was nothin'." 

"Nothing?" Dutch repeats, incredulity lining his voice. He dips his head down to better look at Arthur's waxy face.

" _Nothin_ '" Arthur reiterates tersely, screwing the lid of the canteen back into place and setting it down. "Ain't your business how I make my money anyhow..." He mutters as a quiet afterthought, almost to himself, shifting away from his two guardians.

It was the wrong choice of words, unbeknownst to Arthur, he'd been unaware that Dutch and Hosea weren't privy to the particulars regarding last night's encounter at the bar. There's a pregnant pause that bloats and hangs heavy in the air.

"Money?" Dutch and Hosea both parrot back to him in tandem, it would've been funny if not for the context.

"No," Arthur near snarls the second they ask, his voice cracking with it. Panic and fear that had been cooking under his skin leaping up and sending a wild tremor through his shoulders and down to his finger tips. Arthur stands up quickly; he stumbles and staggers in place, takes a moment to press a palm hard against his demurral stomach, throat going all wet and thick. He screws his eyes shut, and thankfully the feeling passes with no vomiting, yet. Once he regains his bearings, Arthur swivels on his heels and makes to stalk away, but is stopped when Dutch, never seeming to know when to shut his gab, is speaking again.

"Was that man goin' to pay your for sex?"

" _No_!"

"Arthur," Hosea says to him, his voice ever so level and patient; more so than Arthur feels that deserves in this moment. It makes his cheeks heat with a broad flush, he looks away and focuses hard on the ground beneath his feet, biting his quivering lip.

"Calm down, we're just asking-"

"I don't care," Arthur spits, feels a twinge of guilt for snapping at Hosea and looks around wildly to where he spots Boadicea hitched at a nearby tree. He trips over himself in his haste to get to his horse, makes a fist around the horn of her saddle and jams his foot into the stirrup, pulls himself up and onto her back. Dutch is barking after him, but Arthur ignores the sharp call. He yips at Bo to get a move on and pushes his bare heels against her mighty flanks; a snort rips from her velvet nose and she rears a bit, pulls away from the tree only to stop with a halt so jarring that it almost sends Arthur tumbling from the saddle, tossing her fiddle back and letting out an upset nicker. In his frantic haste to get away, he had neglected to untie her lead from one of the low hanging branches. Arthur belts out a frustrated cry, and quickly shimmies forward to lean around her broad neck and undo the knot with shaky fingers, and is stopped when a hand wraps around his skinny wrist.

"Let me go!" Arthur bellows, unable to look Dutch in the eye, trying to tug and twist his wrist free from Dutch's sturdy grip.

"No," Dutch says resolutely, his hold tightening. "You don't need to go runnin' off, Arthur. We just want you to be honest with us, that's all."

Arthur yanks his arm back, face twisting into a mean grimace. He's got half a mind to throw a kick at Dutch's chest. Dutch loosens his grip and then lets go, slow and careful, and instead places his hand on the branch where Boadicea's lead is tied, blocking off Arthur's access to the knot. Out of the corner of his bleary eyes, Arthur can see Hosea standing a few cautionary paces away, his expression decidedly forlorn. 

"Listen, Arthur. What you decide to do with your life and your time, is up to you. Ain't no-one else can tell you nothing, you hear?" Dutch is saying to him in a low, hushed way; he carefully removes his hand from Bo's lead and steps away, hands loose with palms open like Arthur is a kind of wall-eyed deer. Arthur glances between him and Hosea, at the looks on their faces and the depth in their eyes, has him immediately averting his gaze, looks down to his fingers that are wrapped around the saddle horn in a white knuckled grip. Then he looks away, eyes to the ground; and in that moment his chest throbs with a fierce desire to do nothing but crawl back onto his bed roll and sleep, pull a blanket up over his face and hide away from everything.

"Arthur," Dutch's voice interrupts his thoughts, "I think it'd be a mite hypocritical of us to judge you for the choices that you make. That's not what we're about here, haven't I taught you better than that?"

There's a silence that sits heavy and overbearing between the three of them, only intersected by the whip-crack of Boadicea's tail swishing through the air; Arthur keeps his gaze firm on the ground for an excruciating moment before forcing himself to look up at Dutch and Hosea, to meet the humane gaze that they both share and hold to him. Eyes stinging with unshed tears, Arthur squeezes them shut and lets out a deep, shuddering breath. He blinks rapidly, anxiety, fear, and many other emotions coursing thick and rich through his veins.

"We're free out here," Dutch is saying, "and as long as what you're doing ain't harming anyone who don't deserve it, you'll get no temper from us."

Hosea takes a step around Dutch then, walking with heedful paces forward and pats a hand over Arthur's knee. "Just... be more careful about it, is all." He tells him with one of those gentle little smiles of his, the hand upon Arthur's knee tightens a bit as Hosea says additionally, "But don't go off with someone when you're too drunk to even piss straight."

That earns a dry laugh from Arthur, little more than a loose huff that rasps in his throat, but it beats a bit of mirth out of him nonetheless. He lifts a hand to his face and rubs the heel of it over his eyes and cheeks, wiping away tears and the stiffness that had been locked into his jaw; still feeling put out and dazey, the shame still fresh underneath his skin. Prickling awkwardness creeping up along his spine and settling over his shoulders.

"Alright, now hop on off that horse," Dutch is saying as he whirls around, claps his hands together and struts back toward the campfire. "We've got a robbery to discuss."

\----

During the day that follows Arthur's unfortunate encounter in Rhodes, he finds himself begrudgingly working despite his grim, aching shoulder. He's managed to grab a few fitful hours of sleep before Miss Grimshaw is yanking open the canvas flaps of his shelter, shoving the heavy draping to the side and letting in a violent flood of near blinding daylight. It wakes him with a quick jerk, before he freezes and groans audibly, squeezing his eyes tightly shut and turning his head away from the assault.

"Arthur!" She snips at him, free hand finding a perch over her cocked hip, "you can't sleep all-" The volume of Grimshaw's voice suddenly lowers then, cutting herself off as she seems to notice the blue-purple bruises that mar along his face, as well as the bandages wrapped tight across his bare chest, pink bloom settled over his heart. "-day."

Arthur sits up, props himself on his elbows and groans again. As he'd expected, there's pain everywhere; notably in and around his shoulder of course, as well as his jaw and predictably, his rear. Head throbbing with a freshly growing ache, evidence of last night that refuses to hide away.

"What happened?" She asks him suspiciously, and he squints up at her, standing before him as little more than a darkened silhouette with the afternoon light flowing in around her.

"Just a bit of trouble," Arthur answers, his voice gritty from sleeping. He sits up a little more and swings his legs to hang off from the cot, blanket spilling from his lap; lifts a hand to pinch at the scarred bridge of his nose. He feels horrible, and would love to sleep for a few more hours yet, the whole damn day maybe. But it's simply not feasible, there's just too much work that needs to be done. He sighs, heavy with self pity, and stretches his back out as much as he can with the hurt that lances sharp through his body. "Nothin' to worry about," he tell hers on a tight exhale, "I'll be up and out in a minute."

Miss Grimshaw give him a small nod, chews her bottom lip for a moment before stepping back and releasing the canvas, snuffing the light out in an instant. "Alright, Arthur." He can hear her say from the other side, and he isn't quite sure if her voice is just soft because of the thick tent flap between them or because she's feeling sympathetic. He'd place money on the former.

He waits until she walks away; her quick, light footsteps quieten off as she hurries off to light a fire under someone else's behind. Sagging back onto the cot, Arthur swipes a hand through his hair; dirty, sweaty, and still a little too long. Maybe he could get one of the girls to give him a little trim, they're the only ones in the gang that he'd trust to do it; the idea of John or Sean holding a pair of scissors anywhere near his neck is a sickening thought. Though at the moment, he can't bring himself to care all too much about the length; stands up with a drawn out sigh and stretches a bit once more, kinks popping along his taut spine. Arthur shuffles over to his clothing chest and pulls out a fresh pair of underwear, some old saddle pants and a simple gray plaid shirt. Changing is a bit of a nightmare, with every slight movement sending hot flares of pain to pulse through the wound on his shoulder, his aching thighs and ass. Head near throbbing by the time he's carefully plugging in the buttons of his shirt, slower than usual on account of his shoulder, hands shaking just a bit. Arthur finishes freshening up and pushes the canvas aside, stepping out into daylight.

The light glares brutally down at him, and he has to turn his head to this side until his pupils adjust to the brightness.

"Arthur," Hosea greets him cheerfully from where he's sitting nearby at their main table, slouched comfortably in a folding chair with a book in his hands. Arthur offers him a little smile and wanders over, parks himself against the table, mindful of his sore backside. "Mornin', Hosea," he greets back, looks around the camp. It's empty, for the most part, seems that nearly all of the boys are out; Dutch as well. Likely out enjoying generous libation with them Grays in town, working dutifully to wrap that little gump of a sheriff around his finger.

"How are you?" Hosea is asking then, pushes a half-full tin of coffee across the old wooden table. Arthur takes it thankfully and finishes if off in a smooth swig, even the bitter dregs of it. The harsh bite of the caffeine is a welcome taste along his tongue; he places the now empty cup back on the table and fixes his gaze on Hosea. "I'm survivin'" Arthur says lamely, stiffly pushes up and steps away before Hosea can ask anymore questions, notice and grill him about the obvious injuries decorating his face.

"That bad, then."

"Yup." Is Arthur's simple affirmation, he moves over toward the side of John and Abigail's tent, where their supply of hay bales are laid out in neat stacks. Arthur stoops over with a wince and hooks his fingers underneath the corded twine that holds each bale together, shifting the weight of it onto his aching thighs; he straightens his back, hauling the weight of the bale up with him. Through the motion of it all, his shoulder throbs openly and he barely suppresses the moan of pain the accompanies it.

He takes the bale of hay over toward the nearest cluster of horses, and is stopped on his short trek by another greeting; Mary-Beth is looking up at him from her own book, kind smile creasing her freckled face. Dressed impeccably as usual, heavy dress and shawl despite the hot weather with her hair curled into tight, crisp whorls.

"Hi Arthur!" She says blithely. Tilly is there as well, sat at Mary-Beth's side, dainty chin nestled into the cup of her palm as she gazes off toward the stretch of the lake, seeming to be lost in some kind of daydream. Mary-Beth's voice pulls her from her reverie, and she's looking up to Arthur as well, smiling happily in turn.

"Hey girls," Arthur addresses, gives the two of them the best grin that he can muster despite himself.

"Sit with us a minute, maybe?" Mary-Beth asks him, dog earing her book and setting it aside in the grass. "Grimshaw's offa our tails for the time bein', and you look like you could use a little company."

Arthur hesitates, but relents after only a moment and steps over toward them, placing the hay bale down and carefully easing himself low to sit upon it, the horse fodder crunching under his weight. He grimaces slightly, tries to hide it quick before the girls can notice. It was only a flicker really, but Tilly and Mary-Beth are a touch more perceptive than most give them credit for, and the soft look they both share tells of a clear understanding that something was up with Arthur regardless.

"How's it going?" Tilly asks, tilting her head at him.

"Ah, I dunno." Arthur admits, shrugs a little and ignores the lick of pain that throbs through his shoulder at the action. "Rough, I guess."

"Ain't that just how it goes," Mary-Beth sighs, leaning over to pat Arthur's hand where it's draped over his knee, an unexpected roughness to her finger tips. She looks at him openly, her eyebrows knocking up into a condoling line as she examines his bruises. "You wanna talk about it?"

"Not uh, particularly." Arthur says awkwardly, looking away across the glade. He can see little Jack playing over by the shore, crouching low and letting the waves tickle over his tiny bare toes; Abigail is sat on a log nearby, mindlessly sewing a garment and dutifully watching her boy as he splashes about in the shallow waters. Of everyone within the camp, Arthur is typically more willing to speak to the girls about his 'work', they... understand it more than anyone, as to their own experience with the trade. But at this moment, he's not really desiring to discuss such matters, despite the emotions that churn through him with wild abandon. Confusion, pain, exhaustion, frustration, longing. A wretched cocktail that threatens to tear him asunder.

Till only shrugs, gives Arthur that endlessly kind-hearted look that she's managed to perfect so well, nearly sharpened into a tool. "That's fine, Arthur," she placates to him evenly, "but y'know we're always willing to listen if you want to talk; about anything. Don't do anyone no good to keep their feelings locked in a cage all the time."

Arthur, with his cheeks pinking a bit, gives her a small grin for her effort and looks sheepishly downward. He lifts a hand to scratch at the back of his neck, "I know," He tells Tilly, "it's just uh, hard to talk about... certain things sometimes." He looks up and is met with two sets of open, mellow eyes. Soft green and brown. The sight eases him, just a bit, and Arthur letting out a huffy sigh and throwing a quick glance around the perimeter of the camp to make sure that no-one is within earshot before leaning in, speaking lowly at them. "Trick went bad last night," He explains, quiet turmoil spreading through him as he thinks about the john's rough hands, his knife. The words he'd said.

He's given concerned twin frowns in exchange, with Tilly asking softly, "how bad?"

"Coulda been worse but, he pulled a knife on me."

"Really?!" Mary-Beth explains, fingers lace up over her mouth. "Please tell me it ended with him in worse shape 'n you."

Arthur sighs, threads his fingers together and looks down at them, red knuckles and dirty fingernails. A small and immature feeling of smugness worms it's way into his voice when he replies with, "'course it did. Knocked him out an' robbed him for everything he carried on him. Left the fool with his pants around his ankles."

"Good," Tilly remarks, smoothing her hands along her glossy yellow skirt. "Deserved it, I'm sure.'

Arthur smiles, the corner quirking wryly; his chest already beginning to feel lighter, more airy. Arthur cannot say that he's entirely fond of the vulnerability that ties with spilling his guts like this, but he also cannot deny that it loosens up something that's been tightly coiled within him. He opens his mouth to speak once more, words forming along his teeth, though he bites them back as he hears footsteps tromping close; glancing up at the almost sudden sound to make eye contact with Micah. Immediately, Arthur frowns.

The other man is doing nothing more than walking by, sauntering like he's something rather special of course. Micah looks slowly over to the girls where they sit, then his eyes slide back to Arthur once more, giving him an impish grin before slickly addressing the three of them with a drawled out, "Ladies." He gives a poor imitation of a bow, then continues his catty strut across the camp toward the horse hitches. Arthur says nothing, just watches hard and mean at Micah's back; doesn't break the sticky gaze until he's mounted up onto his beast and rode off into the surrounding thicket, heavy beats of hoofs thundering away. Hopefully, he'll be gone for a while. Days if they're lucky; killed if they're even luckier. Mary-Beth scoffs then, and Arthur looks over to see her picking up her book once more, she says, "I really do hate that man."

"You and me both." Tilly adamantly agrees.

Taking it as a cue, Arthur braces his hands over his knees and slowly rises to his feet, exhaling at the strain that twists in his back before turning and threading his fingers underneath the bale twine and lifting the heavy load up.

"I'll talk to you later, girls." Arthur says, straightening his shoulders and moving along to deposit the hay before the horses so that they may feed.

"Bye, Arthur." They both say to him in unison, ducking their heads close to one another and beginning a lowly murmured conversation.

Smiling to himself, Arthur stops at the first hitch and dumps to bale onto the ground with a deep _thud_. He pulls his knife from it's sheath at his hip and uses it to cut the twine, scratchy slabs of hay spilling apart once the twine is loosed and pulled away. Arthur is wrapping the severed twine into a ball when he notices Hosea approaching him, book tucked under his arm.

"Arthur," he says pragmatically. "I'm headin' off to 'mingle' with that highfaluting Braithwaite family, and I believe it would be in your best interests to head off to Caliga Hall before Dutch escorts you there himself."

Arthur doesn't bother to hide his sigh from Hosea, turns away and lifts a hand to pet at Old Bell's long face; she pushes her soft, whiskery nose into the palm of his hand and rubs it against his fingers. He's not really a fan of this plan of Dutch's, throwing themselves into this apparent endless feud between old Antebellum families, however it's not really his place to dispute such matters. He's the work horse, the muscle, he shuts up and does as he's told. Even if it means sucking up proper to some rich Dixie-Whistlers and playing some cute idea of a law man to appeal to the bitter rivals of said rich Dixie-Whistlers. It wasn't often that Arthur was left with a bad taste in his mouth when it came to Dutch's flavor of scheming, however lately it seemed that every job left him spitting. "Alright," he grouses, bracing a hand against his sore lower back. "Jus' gimme a minute."

Hosea's mouth curls into something familiar and narrow, and he places a hand on his hip before giving Arthur a slow once over. "I know that you were 'out' last night. Charles told me."

"What?!" Arthur barks before he can stop himself, he looks around quick before stepping closer and lowering his voice, face growing warm and hissing out, "why?"

"Because I asked." Hosea tells him brusquely, "so don't you go taking anything out on him."

As if Arthur would do such a thing; Charles' earnest nature was truly something to be admired, yet another character trait that Arthur valued in him. He doesn't imagine that Charles would have divulged the information of last night's escapade to just anyone else, if they had asked him. Even Dutch, likely. Charles seemed to be able to clearly read the particular brand of loyalty that lay between Arthur and Hosea, and had decided that Arthur's rather, 'interesting' case of a job was worth mentioning to the older man. Since Hosea clearly had an idea of it all anyway, clearing the air regarding the incident must have been an easy and simple choice for Charles to make. Arthur doesn't blame Charles for being honest, anyhow. But it doesn't do anything to help with how plum embarrassed he is by the whole thing. Especially when confronted with it by Hosea now.

"Okay..." Arthur says evenly. "And what off it? It's done, I got somethin' good out of it."

Hosea makes a loose gesture toward Arthur's left shoulder, fine outline of the bandages peaking up from behind the fabric of his shirt. "Charles told me that you got stabbed. Over _sex_?"

"Things happen sometimes," Arthur says in a bitter voice, after a few moments of stubborn silence. He pushes away from the hitches and shambles off toward the store of hay bales once more; Hosea stepping into line behind him.

"It'd do you well to be a little less blasé about these things, Arthur." He admonishes, "is this the kind of attitude you want to have when there's a rope around your neck?"

Arthur spins around and tries to pin Hosea with a hard glare, but instantly withers under the intensity of the even harder glare that Hosea has fixed on him. He knows that Hosea is just concerned about him, but really he doesn't have much reason to be. Arthur is capable of protecting himself, and to get bent out shape over a little stabbing is almost laughable. He's still alive and breathing, and that's all that should really matter in the end. Anything in between, even getting stabbed over sex of all things, is trivial as long as Arthur is still living and standing to provide for his family. It's not Hosea's business.

"Of course not," he says with a ragged sigh, looks for the right thing to say, with little luck as he's never really been able to do it in the past either. "It's just- it's what I do Hosea, you know that."

Hosea stares at him for an unbearably long moment, something sharp flashing in his murky gray eyes. Finally, he breaks away with a heavy sigh of his own. Tosses his book onto a nearby barrel with a wooden slap and turns his back to Arthur; starts to walk over to where his horse, Silver Dollar, is tied up. "If you ask me," Hosea starts to say, sounding more than a little fatigued as he unhitches the sleek animal, mounting up onto his sturdy back with a tired grunt. Arthur doesn't miss the way that Hosea's breath rattles within his chest. "This 'thing' that you do has become a little more self destructive than it is justifiable."

With that said, Hosea swings his horse around and spurs off toward the trail that leads away from camp, leaving Arthur to stew pitifully over his words, as well as the dense indignity that had long since settled over him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a good week for me to finish writing, no joke. Also worth noting to anyone not super familiar with the history of the Old West, men having sex with other men was not uncommon and wasn't exactly seen as "gay" because alternate sexualities weren't really recognized (you're more likely to be given a hard time over it on the East Coast where society was more 'civilized'), so Dutch and Hosea would likely not judge Arthur for that, however the period typical attitude toward women/being in the woman's place could lead one to judge say, a male prostitute. Not to say that Dutch and Hosea are so sexist as to really blow a gasket over Arthur being involved with men, but you can't argue with irrational fear. There are obviously more nuances to this whole thing, but you get the picture. Comments and the like are always appreciated.
> 
> The limerick that Dutch mentions is a real one that was salvaged by historian Clifford Westermeier, it goes like this:
> 
> " _Young cowboys had a great fear_
> 
> _That old studs once filled with beer_
> 
> _Completely addle’_
> 
> _They’d throw on the saddle_
> 
> _And ride them on the rear._ "
> 
> EDIT: My laptop is currently busted so I can't work on the next chapter, so this fic is going on a little hiatus until I can replace it! Thank you!


	4. california collar pt. 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the bad news is, is that I won't be able to get access to all of my old files, therein forcing me to completely rewrite this story from scratch, as I can no longer use the old fic as a guideline. It's not the end of the world, as I still know all of my story beats, but this fic is now no longer going to follow the previous version as closely. Also, this chapter is being split into two short parts because I'd like to get an update posted and don't quite have the time to write out the entire chapter as planned. Thank you!
> 
> The beginning of this chapter references events and uses direct dialogue from the mission "Magicians for Sport"
> 
> TW: Strangulation

Death, as a concept, is not particularly foreign to Arthur. Living the kind of life that he does, he's spent plenty of time staring down the shiny muzzle of a gun; or clinging tightly to the back of a horse with bullets singing through the air over his shoulders and past his ears. Hot air kissing his cheeks. When faced with his mortality, Arthur supposes that he's never really thought too deeply about it. Maybe it was the familiarity of it that made it seem so banal, at least, his consistent exposure over the years to the deaths of others. From his mother as a young nipper, to Davey just weeks ago. There was a numbness that he'd always felt about it, and it made him careless quite often. 

Arthur had believed, to a point, that when it was definitively his time to bite the ground, that he wouldn't be afraid. That he'd be able to sigh and close his eyes, and drift off into a warm dark water with understanding and quiet acceptance. But in truth, he's wrong. And he was foolish to ever think that he's above the deep, unyielding fear that accompanies death. Now, he squirms and kicks wildly under that heavy, flickering embrace. There's a tight, hot coil twisting ever more snugly around his neck; sharp abraded rope gnawing taut and punishing like wicked teeth against the soft flesh. A grating, gasping sound shudders from his closed off throat as Arthur fights to breathe, flailing hands clawing at the noose that strangles him, the rope being pulled into a tighter and closer cinch by the bounty hunter that crouches behind Arthur's back, his form a malevolent angel as he curls in close, his breathe warm and wet against Arthur's ear as he laughs low and unevenly, giving the noose another tight pull that squeezes thin, dwindling air from Arthur's fluttering windpipe.

Twisting and growling like a coyote in a snare, Arthur struggles to free himself from his captor, but he has no leverage over the bounty hunter that stands over him, pressing his weight down onto Arthur's shoulders and neck from above. His strength is also failing rapidly, despite the blind panic that sends his limbs into a wild flail, every further movement he makes is lame and uncoordinated, his arms and legs feeling heavy and loose as if they're filled with wet sand. His head feels full and overheated; a loud sound, like wind over the open sea roars and rushes in his ears, it's cadence rising and falling with the muffled throb that pulsates out from his temples. Each beat sending a wave of pain and vertigo to shudder through his skull, prickle down to his finger tips and twist into his stomach in a bout of cruel nausea.

There's a pop then, somewhere between his eyes, and then a gush of hot blood that floods down over his lips and chin. Arthur wants to wail, but no sound can pass through his tightly squeezed throat. Writhing weakly with his heels digging into the softly tilled earth beneath him, Arthur blinks in rapid succession up at the vivid blue sky. Although Arthur holds his eyes open as widely as he can, his eyesight is blurry and fading; fighting miserably against the kaleidoscope vignette that glimmers along the corners of his vision. _I'm going to die_ , Arthur thinks, terror seizing his frantically thundering heart, _Oh Lord I'm going to die_. Against his hazy, fluctuating sight, Arthur sees a darkened silhouette bowl into the row then, and the swaddled voice of the bounty hunter floats down to him, sounding miles away.

"He's mine!" The hunter barks out in warning, something narrow rises up by Arthur's head, a gun, likely. "Let me take him... you get outta here."

"You have my friend." A familiar, smooth voice replies, even more quiet and fuzzy.

"He's not your friend... I'll give you money-"

"Oh be quiet!"

There's a quick, wet thud right next to Arthur's ear, followed by a soggy gurgle.

And suddenly, it's over. The tight, suffocating pressure around his neck is released. There's no relief though, as the noose is quickly loosened and the bounty hunter falls away, the ground rushes up to Arthur swiftly and what little breathe he'd had is forced out when his back hits the dirt. Shaky, spasming hands fly to his throat to loosen the rope even further, and Arthur sags against the ground with a deep, shuddering inhale. Quick and distraught pulls of air break from his bloody slick lips as he greedily catches his breathe, wheezy and broken against soft, sore tissue.

A light touch against his shoulder, and Arthur is wildly twisting away, putting his hands up and in front of himself in weak defense. Blinking against the fluttering black spots that cloud and glide across his eyesight, Arthur sags in relief when he finally makes out the visage of Charles crouched just a pace away, flanked on each side by swaying stalks of corn. His hands are held up, palms open, and there's a stricken look cracked across his usually stern face. Arthur glances from Charles' crouched form to the body of the now deceased bounty hunter, crumpled against the stalks, a small, thin throwing knife pierced into chest over his heart, the gray of his overcoat quickly blooming with a dark red spill of blood.

"Come on," Charles says to Arthur softly, drawing his attention. Sucking in another enormous, trembling breath, Arthur squeezes his eyes shut and carefully props himself up, head swimming and stomach turning. 

"You should have taken the money," he manages to gasp out, his voice little but a grated whisper. He cracks open a bloodshot eye and squints up at Charles. Arthur lifts a jittery hand to wipe away the sluggishly dribbling blood from his nose and to gently prod at the swelling, reddened flesh of his neck. In many places, the skin is peeled away in pink shreds, leaving shallow, open scrapes along the sore path left by the noose, glistening with plasma.

"I know," Charles sighs and then says drearily, "I'm a fool."

He reaches out then and tugs the loosened noose from where it's draped around Arthur's neck, flinging it down the row disdainfully; the dark, twisted shape of the thing laying like a snake where it hits the ground. With that done, Charles turns back to Arthur, and there's only a scant moment for something to boil between their locked eyes when the dirt just feet from them explodes with a shrieking whistle, scattering clods to rattle through the dry stalks.

"There's one more in that barn," Charles says to him, crouching low and nodding toward the distant, gray shape of said barn. Arthur blinks dazedly at it, a fuzzy mass against the sky. Charles is suddenly sweeping past him, dropping something into Arthur's lap and saying, "I'll take care of him. You go take care of Trelawny." He's pulling his sawed off from it's holster at his hip as he cuts away from the cover of the rows, prowling with an experienced swiftness. 

Giving his foggy head a shake, Arthur looks down at what Charles had given to him and realizes that it's his hat. It must have gotten knocked off when the bushwhacker had jumped him. Tipping it back up onto his head, he tries to regain his bearings and focus at the mention of Trelawny. Within the hefty sweep that was being attacked and strangled, he'd nearly forgotten about their worse for wear acquaintance; thankfully he didn't seem to have any fatal injuries, just suffered from a mighty beating at the hands of the bounty hunters who'd apprehended him. Mindful of the still hidden sniper, Arthur crawls on his hands and knees down the row to the other side and rises to wary feet once he pulls himself into the clearing. He stumbles across the sloping hills that feed up to the derelict shack where they'd left Trelawny to pursue his captors, he can do little but smirk a bit at the sight of his friend slouched upon the porch top chair in an almost relaxed fashion, head tipped back with his swollen, shiny face to the sun. 

"Put your feet up, why don't ya?" Arthur calls playfully as he grows near, rough voice barely closing the distance between them. Trelawny lifts his heavy head at the sound of Arthur's approach, opens his swollen eyes to fix Arthur pointedly. 

"You okay?" Arthur asks him as he steps closer.

"Never better," is Trelawny's dry response.

Arthur stops at the small porch that stretches out around the little shack and carefully lowers himself to it, sitting down and letting out a heavy exhale as he does so, his heart still beating with enough ferocious vigor to shake his rib cage. "Who was they?" He croaks out, squinting across the corn fields that are spread before them, he watches intently as Charles' faraway form slips into the barn. 

"Bounty hunters, of course." Trelawny says back to him, his voice pinched in thinly veiled pain. He takes a moment to sit up a little straighter before adding, "employed by the likes of Cole Stoudemire."

The title rings a bell, but only just so. All Arthur really knows about such a name, is the reputation attached to the aforementioned name. Money, and good hired guns. He sighs heavily, pinches at the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes shut against the dizziness that swirls against his painfully hammering brain. "Are _you_ alright?" Trelawny asks him then, seeming to pick up on Arthur's obvious malaise.

"More or less," Arthur replies grimly, groping at his raw neck once more, the skin fever hot and puffy to the touch. He anticipates heavy bruises to form as time goes by, and with the slowly growing swelling along his neck he'll likely have trouble eating and drinking later as well. Simply speaking at the moment is already difficult and painful enough. He sighs heavily, the action pulling tight on his sore throat, a deep tiredness falling over him. Arthur pulls his slightly shaking limbs closer to his body, a cold prickle tingling over his skin and raising goosebumps along the flesh. He rubs his palms flat up and down his biceps for a quick moment, trying to will his adrenaline soaked nerves to relax, and at the sight of Charles stepping out from the barn with his gun heeled once more, Arthur pulls himself up from the porch and steps over to help Trelawny stand up. "Damn hemp fevered bounty hunters," he mutters while slipping his shoulder underneath Trelawny's arm and bracing it across his thin shoulders. 

As Charles jogs up over the hill, Trelawny says, "I don't believe they were looking for me."

Arthur meets his eyes, then looks over to Charles, who is approaching with one of the bounty hunter's horses. There's an unspoken understanding that passes between the three of them, that these bounty hunters were really only after one person, with that one person obviously being Dutch. Arthur knew this all too well, as the Pinkertons had made it very clear to him personally, that Arthur himself and the rest of the gang were just small fish compared to Dutch, at least in the eyes of the law. "No doubt..." Arthur says slowly as he leads Trelawny up to the red roan that Charles had pulled up. "What did you tell them?" He asks firmly, a tight caution to his scratchy voice.

"A very pretty story," Trelawny mumbles slackly as they help him mount up onto the saddle. He wheezes and shifts into place atop the deck with a tight wince, striking magenta bruises rippling with the expression. Arthur notes to himself awkwardly, that he's never seen Trelawny so out of place before. It was justified given the situation, anyone who takes such a beating would look quite a sight. But the image of frazzled black hair and loose, crumpled clothing upon the other man is certainly a new one. Waving his hand in a vague gesture once he's slumped more comfortably upon the horses's back, Trelawny continues. "Something about being an aspiring professor, traveled all the way down here from Oregon. I thought it quite colorful myself, but clearly they didn't believe me.

Gathering up the reins, steely grey eyes look down upon Arthur and glue him where he stands. "You gentlemen seem to have to made quite the mess in Blackwater."

Arthur sighs at the brutal reminder and scratches at the back of his head, tips his hat low. "That's what they keep tellin' me."

Trelawny looks between Arthur and Charles, brows knotted together firmly. "It's probably best that I stay with you boys for a while."

Arthur nods, places his hands over his hips. "Probably," he mutters. Looking anywhere but at the sets of eyes that are locked speculatively on him. Face burning hot under the scrutiny, and shame crawling sharp along his skin for letting himself get snatched so easily by that bounty hunter. He needs to get out of here, or at least put some distance between himself and those who would judge him for being so damn careless. Arthur turns away and makes to mount up onto his own horse. He swings up onto Pearl's back, and has to brace himself against the saddle horn at the hot rush that tips the world around him, swimming sickeningly through his head and filling his mouth with foamy saliva.

"Charles," he says stiffly after a few shaky, painful puffs of air, his lashes fluttering against his cheeks as he swallows down the caustic dizziness that threatens to tip him back down into the dirt. 

"Get Trelawny back to the camp, tell Dutch everything that happened here."

Charles looks like he wants to object for the briefest of moments, his lips thin just a bit before his expression smooths out into that familiar, placid air once more. He nods with a quick dip of his head and steps toward Taima, climbing onto her speckled back and turning her around to face Arthur. "What about you?" He asks, dark gaze steady as he tilts his head to meet Arthur's eyes.

Arthur doesn't answer right away, the beat of silence that hangs stiff in the air between them only intersected by the tight hitching of Arthur's stuttering breaths. "I'm gonna scout around," he answers finally, "see if there's any more of 'em hiding 'round here."

"Exercise caution, dear boy." Trelawny calls back to Arthur as he swings Pearl around, gaffs at her white flanks to send her forward into an even trot. 

"No promises," Arthur murmurs back as they split off with a flurry of hoof beats. Even underneath the humid, Southern Summer heat, he feels very, very cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hemp fever is a morbid slang term for hanging.
> 
> Short like I said, but future chapters after the next one will be longer. Comments and the like are much appreciated! Typos are my own, and expect the next part soon :)


	5. california collar pt. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry that this took so long, we're living in some very strange times.
> 
> This chapter contains the usage of drugs (marijuana) and animal skinning, as well as references to an in game event where you hunt bison with Charles.
> 
> Edit 2/7/21: made just a few little changes, nothing really noticeable

Arthur sulks his way back to camp eventually. But not after wandering along the banks of the lake in a daze, pausing to kneel at the curling shore, he dips his hands in; pulling up scoops of water to wash over his neck. Beads of the water roll downward past the collar of his shirt, leaving goosebumps to dot his skin as they chill their way along the drop of his spine. Pearl snorts and snuffles at his side, her tail cutting through the air with a sharp _whip_ as she lowers her massive head to take a drink. He smiles wanly at her, pats her neck softly for a few moments before carefully rising to his feet, keeping one hand braced against her. The pain in his rear, almost forgotten in the wake of him nearly being garroted, has faded quite a bit. Still there, it's a sharp tug and twinge; when it flares up it makes his knees go a little wobbly. With his other hand flattened against the small of his back, Arthur straightens up and carefully rolls his neck, wincing as he does so. 

His shoulder still aches as well, and he bemoans the fact that after today's events, it feels a lot more achy than it had when he'd first woken up that morning. The flurry of movement, twisting and struggling in the dirt as the noose was pulled tighter and tighter, Arthur had had no time to be mindful of his slowly healing wound, which was now throbbing with a heated fever. In a shaky movement, Arthur warily lifts his hands to poke at his neck, wincing and hissing as his finger tips graze along the puffy welts. Even the lightest brush of them feels like hot fire on the oversensitive nerves and freshly peeled skin. Sighing in a loud, miserable kind of way, Arthur drops his hands to his sides and turns to his horse, thinking heavily on what he should do. Really, what he would like to do is to return to camp, nurse his wonderful new injuries and then maybe down a bottle or two of beer, then curl up on his dingy little cot and fade into a deep, alcohol induced slumber. It seemed to be a common dream within Arthur's mind these days, to just sleep the day away until Dutch or someone else needs him for something again. It's a selfish thought, because Arthur is more than happy to help out around the camp and perform Dutch's bidding, was more than glad for his usefulness when he'd first joined the gang, so many years ago. But now, as Arthur stands upon the shore of the lake, feeling little else but worn out and stretched thin, he can't help but ponder the diminishing returns that seem to bedevil him.

Perhaps he won't go back to camp just yet; a little idea starts to bloom in his mind, that perhaps he'll just stop by and grab some supplies before heading out again. Out to somewhere secluded and quiet, away from the smoggy little towns and constant demand for work to be done. To where, he hasn't decided yet. But it's not out of character for him to go 'gallivanting' about the countryside, as Hosea had so aptly put it before, so it would be easy enough to slip in and slip out with nary a raised eyebrow. Although he had a small, niggling feeling that Dutch may hail him down the second he sets foot within the perimeter, as he was often wont to do. Especially after the recent development of bounty hunters nabbing their own just to get to him.

It's not that far of a ride, back to camp. Mostly just a slow trek through uneven, patchy forest, weaving between the closely standing trees and carefully directing Pearl around the more precarious stretches of earth. Her heavily hooved steps are muffled into the spongy ground, padded with soft, thick mulch. Arthur breaks away from the tree line eventually, and follows along the shore instead. Enjoying the slow pace and the warm sunshine, glazy and soft on his weeping skin. Once he spots the derelict boat that's crumpled within the shallows; half submerged in the foamy, stagnant water, Arthur straightens his back and readies himself to be chewed out, interrogated, or greeted, as the camp lays not far past the old wreckage. In fact, as Arthur draws near, he can hear the low buzz of the gang as they go about their day. At least, the members of the gang who have little else to do but hang around. He steers Pearl quietly into the perimeter and toward his tent. He can see the girls cluttered around their own wagon, sat under the shade of a stretched out blanket, chatting merrily amongst themselves as they count bullets. Sadie stands nearby, seeming to be listening in but not participating; she's leaning against the side of the wagon with her arms crossed over her chest, sly smile underneath the low shadow of her hat. 

Arthur climbs gingerly down from Pearl's back and leaves her standing at a nearby hitch; walks in a quiet mosey to his tent where he selectively grabs a few of his belongings and stuffs them into his satchel. It's not much, just an unopened box of cigarettes and a fresh pencil. Most of his furnishings for camping out, he already keeps strapped securely to his horse's saddle. With that done, Arthur ducks out from under the canvas and moves with a little more speed back to Pearl, keen on heading out into the comforting wilds as soon as possible.

Once he's mounted upon her back and is steering her toward the small trail that winds away from their settlement, Arthur blinks in surprise when he spots Charles wandering over in his direction; and then looks away sheepishly before their eyes can meet, he pointedly ignores the giddy little flutter that twists in his stomach. He tugs on the reins to pull the horse to a stop once they're but a few feet apart.

"Hey," Charles greets him as he usually does, in a single word, gently spoken.

"Hi," Arthur drawls, voice still a little husky, and manages to put on a little smile despite himself. In an internal fight against the urge to tug his shirt collar up a bit higher, he instead squeezes the reins so tightly that his hands tremble some, the worn leather biting into his palms. He expects Charles to ask him about what had happened earlier that day, if he was okay after the attempted strangulation, and braces himself to brush it off.

"How's your shoulder?"

Arthur gives him an owlish look, a little put off but pleased nonetheless that Charles had the decency as not to broach the subject, fresh and painful as it was. He had a feeling that Dutch would not grant him the same courtesy, not for his callousness, but out of his overt tendency to make Arthur's problems into his own, or vice versa. Hosea on the other hand, would pick at the matter like a scab, entirely out of pure concern for Arthur's wellbeing; and he appreciates the sentiment, really. Arthur knows the coldness of neglect, and will always inwardly preen underneath the attention of the man who may as well be his father, but perhaps it's because of said previous neglect, consistent and cruel in his early years of life, that he cannot help but squirm a little at that same attention. To cringe away from it with heated cheeks and prickling skin. 

"S'alright," Arthur answers him finally, rolling his shoulder just a bit as if to show off how well it's been healing, except that it still twinges and stings after today's unexpected aggravation. He winces, and Charles seems to notice it but doesn't say anything, so Arthur adds:

"Could be better but, sometimes these things just take a while."

Charles hums in agreement, hand on his belt. There's a look on his face, like he wants to say something, but his lips remain tight and still. So, Arthur decides to take a small leap and fill the air once more. " _You_ okay? After today, I mean- you didn't get hurt none, when we was out there?"

Arthur is earned a mildly staggered look in turn, but it melts away from Charles' face rather quickly, and his mouth cracks into a small grin. "No," he answers, "not at all."

Before Arthur can speak once more, even opening his mouth to do so, Charles then pipes up before the words can pass his teeth, "where are you headed?"

"Oh," Arthur gawps, wriggles a bit on the saddle to get a little more comfortable, "just, out. Maybe some huntin'... mostly uh, gettin' away from here." He pauses for a moment, lifts a hand and scratches at the back of his head, just under where his hat rests. His scalp damp and warm from the mercilessly hot and humid weather, now slowly fading into something slightly more cool and bearable as the day slips softly into a vivid dusk.

"Mind I if join you?" Charles asks, leaning on one hip, "I'd like to get away from all... this, too." He gestures back toward the clustered wagons, before straightening up and adding curtly, "unless you'd rather be alone."

"Nah I don't mind," Arthur tells him with little hesitation, waving off the notion. Truthfully, he did want to be alone, mostly. But a self-serving part of him wants to spend some time with Charles, even though doing so would never mean anything, other than maybe deepening their friendship a little bit. At least, it would not be what he would like it to be. It's not really what that desperate little part of his heart wants, the part that he tries and fights to deny, but God be damned if he won't take it. By nature, Arthur was a reserved person, he held his heart rather close and took great pleasure in loneliness and silence. And Charles seemed to be the same way. Arthur rather liked that about him.

Charles' grin widens at the given permission, and Arthur has to flick his eyes away for just a moment.

"Let me get Taima ready."

Once Charles' saddle has been packed with his own bedroll, saddlebags loaded with various items, and a long, sleek bow secured against the side, they head out with only a few curious eyes trailing after them. 

The sun is starting to set behind the two of them as they fall into a thudding line on the winding dirt road that twists through the emerald green hills like a red snake, long, stretched shadows arching across the swaying lush grasses. Arthur had decided, mostly at the last minute, where'd they would be going. Not too long after they'd carefully moved their hideout to the seclusion of Clemen's Point, Arthur had done a small bout of exploring, and after a few days of curious roaming he'd stumbled upon something that he decidedly found to be interesting. A top a steep, sloping hill several miles outside of the dusty little town that is Rhodes, there is a large slouched boulder that's twisted into a visage similar to that of a face. It's slight and subtle; but as Arthur had sat and observed the rock from the side in fascination, head tilted and everything, he could clearly make out the sharp curl of a brow, and the clean cut cheek bones that smoothed down into a long nose and sturdy chin. He'd even pulled his sketchbook and pencil out to try and draw the unique bit of nature, as well as his map to scribble his approximation of the thing's location. Arthur figures that it's only about an hour's ride or so.

As their ride takes them deeper into the green yonder of Scarlett Meadows, they bank their horses around a sharp, hooked turn onto a smaller road that bisects a long, straight stretch of train tracks, metal rails gleaming with pink evening light, Charles speaks up after a comfortable belt of silence.

"So how do you figure this whole thing with those Gray's and the uh, Braither's is going to work out?"

"Braithwaite's," Arthur corrects him, a grimace twisting his face up as he's reminded of the elaborate scheme. "And not well, I think." He then admits, and not without a touch of shame. "Dutch wouldn't be too happy if he heard me sayin' this, but he takes them for much larger fools than I think they are." 

"Why not tell him that you think so?" Charles asks him, kicking his heels at Taima's flanks a bit to match her pace with Arthur's horse. "Wouldn't he listen to your opinion?"

"Oh he'd listen," Arthur says sardonically, corner of his mouth curling into something both wry and frustrated. "But he wouldn't take it to heart, I know so."

"It would be smart of him," He can hear Charles mutter gravely, "if he listened to the people that he's supposed to be leading..."

Arthur looks over at him then, but Charles' eyes are hard and steady on the road ahead. "If he won't bother to hear what you have to say, what does that tell you about him as a leader?"

"Now hold on, that ain't fair," Arthur rebukes, flicking Pearl's reins and swerving a bit to avoid a scampering squirrel, it's bushy black tail twitching in fear. "Dutch listens to Hosea, an' he's whole heaps smarter than I am. He's also up to his ears in all kinds'a bad medicine right now, I don't expect him to play nice."

"But he listens to Micah?" Charles says, and his words cut quickly and sharply. Arthur sits slightly aghast for a moment, then looks away to the road, mouth working as he thinks of something to say. Why is he trying to come up with an excuse? Arthur can't think of a person, excepting his father or Colm O'Driscoll, that he may hate more than Micah Bell. Dutch _does_ seem to put some amount of stock into what Micah says, not always, but enough to plainly notice. And that should enrage Arthur; it does enrage him. It fills him with a dreadful, bitter kind of feeling. A kind of despairing hurt that squeezes his heart, and yet he fumbles and searches for some kind of reason to justify Dutch's bizarre behavior anyway. Unable to let his loyalty to the man slip even slightly.

"Micah's all hat and no cattle," Arthur manages to say, voice stilted, "he talks and talks, and if I know Dutch, is that he loves to hear pretty talk." _And I've never really been good with words_ , he thinks as an afterthought, but doesn't dare say it out loud. He doesn't want to turn this into some kind of search for sympathy from Charles, or anyone really, and quickly decides that he wants to steer the conversation back to the initial subject.

"Anyway, I got a bad feelin' about this charade that Dutch is playing at, but I always got a bad feelin'. Keep your expectations low and you'll never be disappointed."

Charles gives him a crooked look, but then shrugs and turns his attention back to leading his horse. "If you say so... let's just hope this whole thing doesn't blow up in our faces; we've got enough to deal with as it is."

Arthur can't help but agree, and perks up when he spots the familiar hill rising in the distance. A great, deep green mound reaching up for the darkening sky, shadowed and shrouded by the low light. If he squints hard, he can make out the sharp jut of the dead tree that stands at the top, branchless and pale.

"There?" Charles asks him, following Arthur's gaze and nodding toward the rise. 

Arthur nods back, and he kicks at Pearl's flanks and shucks hard at her reins, earning a light knicker and a burst of speed from the agile horse beneath him. She breaks into a steady gallop, off from the thin road and up the gentle incline of the hill, gradually growing steeper as she pushes closer to it's peak, Charles and Taima thundering close behind.

Carefully urging Pearl to a stop before they reach the top most peak of the hill, Arthur carefully dismounts from her back and does a little stretch once his feet are firmly planted on the ground, sighing as his back pops and throbs with the motion. Charles pulls Taima to a skidding stop beside him, scattering clods of dirt and grass in a wide arch; Arthur has to step back a bit to avoid the spray.

"Sorry," Charles says, but there's something playful glittering within his coffee brown eyes.

Smiling back at him wryly, Arthur grabs hold his horse's reins and begins to lead her up the rest of the climb. Looking over the familiar boulder as he passes by it, even in the waning light, he can still make out the elusive shape of a face upon it's surface. Climbing up past the arrangement of stones, they make use of Arthur's lasso ropes to tie their horses to the withered tree with extended leads, so they may wander a bit and graze to their leisure. After giving Pearl a heavy pat to her rump, Arthur turns and looks upon the vista that stretches wide before him. Their own hill lopes downward and stretches into a sea of smaller rolling hills and rises, dotted by cluttered copses of varying thickness, appearing as little more than dark, silhouetted thickets. Beyond that, the forest is distant and fuzzy, almost black with the sun setting slowly behind it. In several areas, the forest is broken open and thin, and between the black trees Arthur can see the lake glittering beyond with brilliant color and light. Flashing yellow and glimmering along a scarlet, rippling surface. The sky above the lake is painted with hues of yellow and pink, melting softly into purple and blue as the sun sinks ever lower, stars are beginning to peak in against the darkened wash, just little more than twinkling studs. And to the south, Arthur can make out Rhodes as it flickers and flutters in the distance like a mirage, smoke steadily rising from it's various homesteads and businesses.

"This is a pretty good spot," Charles says to him, coming up to Arthur's side and looking over the sprawling fields before them, hands on his hips. 

"Sure is," Arthur replies, swiveling on his heel and moving back toward Pearl, so that he can begin to unload his supplies.

A few feet away, inside of a small rock ring, sits a meager pile of half-charred wood, leftover from the last time that Arthur had decided to stay there. It doesn't look like it had been used at all by anyone else, which inwardly pleased Arthur, as that fact only attested to the privacy of this location. He crouches, carefully, and pulls his satchel off from his shoulder, sticking his hand inside to dig around for tinder to light a fire within the rock ring. 

"Reckon we'll just stay here for now, that alright with you?" Arthur asks, looking up at Charles. He wants to mention something about being a little too tired to really do more than sit around for a bit before catching some sleep but decides to keep that little tidbit to himself. 

"Of course," Charles tells him, turning back to the horses to retrieve his bow from where it's strapped to his saddle. He slips the slim, wooden weapon over his shoulders, the shiny, thin twine tight across the breadth of his chest. "I can go hunt for a rabbit or two; you can try to get a fire going."

He says it like it'll be a challenge, and looking at the tiny pile of burnt twigs, Arthur feels that it may be so. But he is nothing if not resourceful, and has started many a campfires in his lifetime, plenty of those times being on certifiably sparse supplies. "Oh _I'll_ get a fire going," he says lowly, a teasing edge his warping the sarcastic voice he intended to put on.

Charles gives him a look that appears to be an eyeroll, though Arthur can't fully tell, as Charles was never quite the one to show too much emotion upon his face, much to Arthur's mild dismay. Once Charles is meandering down the slope, crouching low to examine the grass for any signs of rabbits, Arthur begins to set a fire. Charles is bound to find one pretty quickly, these fields are abundant with the little critters. 

As he recalls, the fiercest emotion Arthur had seen from the other man had been the last time that they'd hunted together, several weeks ago now, back when they were still bunked down at Horseshoe Overlook. The thought of their previous locale sent a little pang through Arthur's chest, he'd liked that place quite a lot, despite how dewy and chilly the mornings were. They'd gone hunting for bison, respectfully and purposefully, as Charles had wanted. Passionately explaining to Arthur the significance that the large animal held to his mother's people, despite the faraway, misty kind of look that had taken over his eyes as he spoke. But that moment of soft enthusiasm had quickly melted into something sour, as they stumbled upon the first decayed, foul bison carcass. Descending rapidly into an even worse fervor as they followed a putrid trail of bloated, wasted meat to a camp loaded with greasy, hard faced hunters who'd been paid pennies just to kill the beasts. Arthur had barely flinched when Charles had viciously blasted open the chest of one of the hunters with his sawed-off shotgun, his furious snarl resonating as it cracked off of the layered rock formations that surrounded them. 

" _It's **that** business of mine_!"

The thunderous, dark look that had twisted up Charles' face was something to behold, and Arthur would be lying if he said that he wasn't at all surprised by the passionate outburst. Arthur can't really say that he fully understands the implications of it all, but it just didn't feel right. If Charles believed that it was a truly heinous crime, then Arthur certainly felt inclined to agree with him.

Arthur's mulling thoughts continue as he deftly tucks some old lint and paper between the dry wood, then shakes a match loose from the little book that he keeps tucked into his back pocket. After several minutes of careful coaxing, leaning down on his creaking knees so that he can blow into the weak flames and prodding into the smoldering embers with a long stick that he'd found nearby, Arthur manages to nurse the little flicker into a moderately healthy burn. He carefully pushes the sticks into a more sturdy pile, and glances up when he spots Charles strolling back up the rise, a dead, fit rabbit already slung over his shoulder. Never let it be denied that Charles was a swift hunter, Arthur had always fancied himself a rather skilled one, but Charles' abilities with the art truly put his own to shame.

"Already?" Arthur calls to him, "that was quick. Well done."

He can see the corner of Charles' mouth curling up a bit as he steps closer, stopping short of the small fire Arthur had made and dropping the rabbit onto the grass with a light _thump_ , a bloody little puncture between it's thin shoulder blades. "They must live a good life out here, this one saw me approaching and didn't even run."

"Must be nice," Arthur muses, slowly rising from his crouched position on the ground, his body protesting in it's usual, troubling way. Charles moves to sit down by the fire, pulling a long hunting knife from a sheath at his belt and grabbing the rabbit by it's spindly hind feet, pulling it into a taught position and tucking in to skin the limber creature. Arthur moves back over to Pearl and pulls his bedroll from it's bindings on her saddle, then flicking open the flap of a saddlebag to lift out a cloudy glass bottle full of sloshy liquid and small cloth bundle, as well as his own compact metal grill along with it's narrow stand. It's rather small, the slightly rusted grid barely larger than Arthur's own hand, but it's large enough to cook a few rashers on. Tossing his bedroll to the ground on the side of the fire opposite of Charles, Arthur sinks back down onto his behind with a sigh, setting the bottle and cloth bundle onto the dirt beside him.

"What's that?" Charles asks, eyes flicking from his burden to the items at Arthur's side.

"This," Arthur says, leaning back on one palm and picking the bottle, shaking it a bit for Charles to see, "is genuine Dixie-whistlin' tonsil paint."

"What?"

"Moonshine," Arthur insists, "the strong stuff," waggling the bottle and handing it to Charles around the fire. Eyes on the other man as he takes it and squints at the faded old label, Arthur didn't have it in him to tell Charles that whatever that label said, it probably had nothing to do with moonshine, seeing as the booze had been home brewed by a few hillbillies that he'd met out in the backwoods. Arthur had a feeling that it used to be a laudanum bottle. He looks, almost shyly, at Charles from underneath the brim of his hat. By the warm light of the fire and the dying light of dusk, his rich skin burns with a vibrant glow. And Arthur's cheeks are just warm from the light of the fire as it presses against his face, that's all.

"And these," he says, reaching to the little lavender colored bundle at his hip, unwrapping it carefully and dumping a few small, paper sticks onto his palm. "are hemp cigarettes. Picked 'em up a while ago down in the New Mexico Territory, almost forgot I even had 'em."

He hands one of the carefully rolled cigarettes to Charles, who takes it curiously, holding it up and examining the little thing with a close eye. 

"Marijuana, right?" Charles asks, rolling it between his finger tips, blood on the pads stamping pink prints along the white paper, just a little.

Arthur nods, taking it back when Charles holds it out to him, not minding the prints. "I usually save 'em for when I'm feeling a little... overwhelmed."

"Sure," Charles says back to him, grinning in simple understanding, "I've smoked it before, it's... nice. Relaxing."

He looks back down to the half skinned rabbit at his knees, slipping his knife carefully underneath the dusty brown coat and neatly separating the skin from the muscle and sinew, peeling away the split pelt as it's loosened and cut. The flesh beneath is rosy pink and slippery with blood, plump and healthy. Arthur's stomach rumbles a bit just looking at it, and he bashfully pats at his stomach to tamp down the impatient growling. 

A calm silence falls over them, no sound but the quiet _snick_ of Charles' knife and the quiet popping of the fire between them, crickets and cicadas singing a lilting, ringing chorus from the copses and fields that sprawl around them. As Charles finishes up the skinning and begins to cut thin, neat slices of meat from the rabbit's body, Arthur straightens up a little bit to set up the small grill, carefully propping the stand up on the outside of the fire and straightening the metal grid just over the small, licking flames. 

"Thank you," Charles murmurs to him, looking up and meeting Arthur's eyes for a brief second before they drop back down.

Arthur sits back again, one leg curled underneath him a bit and the other stretched out to the side. He unscrews the metal cap from the moonshine bottle, raising it to his lips and holding his breath as the acerbic hooch burns it's way past his lips, spreading a hot fire through his chest and dropping into his stomach like an overheated stone. His still sore throat practically spasms in pain. He sputters a bit, prickling liquid dribbling down his chin. Almost immediately, a low, swimming feeling filters up to his head and settles between his ears. He hands the bottle to Charles once he's placed several strips of the meat along the grill, supple flesh quickly beginning to sizzle and pop upon exposure to the heat. Charles takes a quick swig, and his face screws up in a way very similar to how Arthur's had, and Arthur can't help but smirk a little impishly. "Told ya it was strong."

"You- you sure did," Charles' coughs out after a moment, his voice grizzly underneath the sting of the moonshine. He leans forward to hand the bottle back to Arthur, but his eyes drop down to Arthur's neck and remain there until Arthur's cheeks grow a bit pink, and he asks, nervously. "What?"

"Your neck," Charles says with a frown, his brows knitting upward. "It looks pretty bad."

Arthur flushes even more, moves his free hand to brush at his neck in a flustered motion. There's really no use in acting like it's not there, or that it doesn't bother him some. Charles is smarter than that. So he shrugs lamely and mutters, "yeah, I reckon it does."

Charles looks pensive for a moment, his face stony and still as he appears to think, he then perks up after a beat and says, "I have something that might help it feel better, at least for a bit."

"Um, okay." Arthur says sheepishly, then adds, "it don't hurt that bad. S'mostly just ugly."

"I hear you," Charles replies plainly as he stands up, hands braced upon his knees, dusting his pants off once he straightens his back. "I just think it might help."

Arthur doesn't respond, but watches Charles in a penitent way as he walks over to Taima and digs around for something in one of his saddle bags, pulling out a small and round object from it after a moment. Making eye contact with Arthur as he turns around, Charles holds it up to show to him. 

"Calendula cream," he tells Arthur as he approaches, extending an arm and holding out the little metal tin to him. Arthur takes the round, disk like container and examines it, the scrubbed yellow label upon the lid reads "GENUINE CALENDULA MARIGOLD HEALING CREAM - EXCELLENT FOR BURNS, SWELLING, INFLAMMATION, ITCHINESS AND ALL MANNER OF EXTERNAL SKIN AFFLICTIONS".

"Thanks," Arthur says dumbly after staring at it for a few seconds, blinking down at the thing and lightly tapping the metal surface with a fingernail. "Seems like good stuff."

"It is," Charles declares as he takes it back from Arthur, "I try to pick up different natural medicines whenever I swing though a town, you never know when you'll need some kind of unique treatment."

"I see," Arthur murmurs, looking up at Charles a little dreamily, the moonshine having long since set a fuzzy little wave to spread throughout his body, slick as molasses. He sighs; nervously scrubs at the back of his neck before scooping up the bottle and taking another hearty gulp of the alcohol within, grimacing at the horrendous burn, before he thinks boldly to himself _ah, to hell with it _and makes a personal, selfish little decision. Arthur shifts in place where he sits, and looks back up at Charles and knocks his hat from his head, dropping it the ground. "Would you uh," he starts, "mind helping me put it on? I can't exactly see my own neck..."__

__"Sure," Charles answers with an easy going smile, rather soft and hazy in the warm light. "Maybe get your jacket out of the way first..."_ _

__They sit close to one another near the lowly burning fire; Arthur's light, tan jacket discarded on the ground nearby. Charles is crouched at Arthur's side, just slightly behind him, his knee that's not braced against the ground brushing scantly against Arthur's spine. Arthur had already foregone his button up shirt earlier that day, too hot and uncomfortable to continue wearing it, along with the extra contact the shirt applied to his aching neck. The upper sleeves and torso bit of his union suit were thin and comfortable enough to wear in such heat with little issue, and the collar of it was wide and boat necked, scooping down a bit past the little dip between his clavicle bones and the knobby little vertebrae on the base of his neck. Arthur tries not to look at Charles from the corner of his eye; his face feels warm enough as it is, and his skin is buzzing with a kind of jittery but pleasant energy. Arthur is glad that he's already a bit slewed; he and Charles both sharing another swig from the bottle before settling in, or else he would be a hell of a lot more nervous right now, wouldn't have even been brave enough to indulge on his dearly held desire to be closer to Charles. There's a light, metal clicking sound as Charles' untwists the lid from the container and leans in a mite closer to say, quietly "it might sting, or be cold. Just so you know." His breath is light on Arthur's ear and it sends a cold little tingle from the base of his skull down to his (still kind of sore) tail bone._ _

__Charles takes a moment to move Arthur's too long hair out of the way, and then scoops some of the cream up with fingers before gently smoothing the slippery mixture against Arthur's savaged skin. He flinches just a little, the touch light and careful against his pulse, accompanied by a mild, but hot sting._ _

__"Are there bruises?" Arthur asks suddenly, voice snagging in his throat._ _

__"Yeah," Charles says dispiritedly, "not too many, but some pretty ugly ones. All purple and black."_ _

__Arthur sighs pitifully, but says nothing more as Charles continues to carefully rub the cream against the angry welts branded against his neck. Once the initial burn faded away, there was a nice, cool feeling sweeping along the puffy skin. It didn't totally negate the pain, the bruises still ached a bit and likely would for a while, but the ghastly itching and throbbing of the braided marks had moderately lessened underneath Charles' careful ministrations. He closes his eyes, hanging his head a little bit, snatching up the small moment of reprieve and holding it close. Arthur tries not to frown when Charles pulls away, the warmth against his back suddenly gone._ _

__"You'll probably need to keep your head still, while it soaks in. You should be keeping it as still as possible while it heals, anyway."_ _

__"Yeah," Arthur says lightly, rolling his shoulders a little and eyeing Charles as he stands up and moves back to the other side of the fire, leaning down to poke at the meat, pleasantly brown now and smelling quite tasty, despite the lack of any seasoning. They each skewer a rasher upon the tips of their hunting knives, and while waiting for the simmering slices to cool off, pass the bottle of moonshine between themselves once more. Arthur also pulls one of the hemp cigarettes from it's cloth wrapping, and sticks one end of it in the flickering flames to light it. Once it's burned to a glowing little smolder, Arthur sticks the paper nail between his lips and takes a heavy drag from it, sucking the heady smoke into his mouth and then inhaling it deeply. Tilting his head back, he then blows the smoke up into the air, eyes on the faintly glittering stars. Leaning to his side and bracing himself upon an elbow, Arthur coughs a bit and hands the cigarette to Charles, who takes it with a little nod and draws his own puff. Holding the smoke in for a moment before it billows out from his nose._ _

__After a few minutes and a few more long pulls, Charles gives him a wide eyed look and Arthur almost chokes on the laugh that bubbles up from his chest, hawking gruffly to clear his gritty throat. "Good, ain't it?"_ _

__Charles merely nods back, his mouth settling into a relaxed kind of smile. It's a good look on him, Arthur thinks. There always seems to be a permanent pinch to Charles' face, like there's something distressing him that he can't ever truly banish from his mind. Arthur doesn't ask, it doesn't feel right to pry into the man's past, but he can't help but wonder. And often questions whether it would better for Charles' sake to just be candid and ask, taking a page from Mary-Beth's book of " _it's always good to talk about yer feelin's!_ ", or giving Charles the space to freely speak about it whenever, or if ever, he desires._ _

__They don't talk much as the dusk drags on, but Arthur doesn't mind. He feels warm and giddy, his aches and pains seeming to have melted away underneath the haze of the moonshine and the hash, like a warm blanket. Arthur likes the comfortable silence, likes that Charles seems just as content to simply sit and enjoy another person's presence with little conversation. He's so used to his time and space always being in the demand of others, that to just quietly bask within the company of someone who isn't trying to use him for something makes a special kind of joy brew in his chest. Maybe it's just the drugs and the booze, but he feels great, better than he has in a quite a spell. And while some part of him feels a bit guilty for thinking such a thing, he can't really bring himself to care, and grins broadly and privately as he cuts small strips of meat from his rasher, eating them enthusiastically even though swallowing makes his throat hurt all the more. Before Arthur and Charles can even finish their small meal, the crossing streams of booze and drugs sends them into foggy, woolly states. Like consistently waking from and falling back into a cozy, vignetted dream. Mumbling and near giggling at each other as they exchange stories in fumbled, messy words. They can't fully understand each other, words slurred and often not quite making it past their teeth in the intended order, but it doesn't really matter, in the end._ _

__Slouched next to one another, they find themselves dipping their heads close like they're sharing secrets, legs outstretched before them. Arthur throws his head back in a hearty laugh, one that belts out from his chest. The action send a quick twinge through his neck, but it's quickly forgotten. Charles was talking about... something. He wasn't quite sure, or didn't remember, but it had been a funny story. Arthur was sure of that, he thinks, Charles had been tripping over every other word to let out a stint of laughter himself. Arthur finds that his own erratic laughter is a bit hard to cap, and he sits up a little straighter; shaking his head, strands of his hair in his eyes._ _

__"I don't know why- I'm laughin'!" He exclaims, having to pause mid sentence to let out a series of wavering chortles, tries to catch his hitching breath._ _

__Something is tickling along his face then, and Arthur quickly lifts a hand to swipe it away, thinking it's perhaps a gadfly. Those things were horrid; but to his surprise, there was nothing upon his cheek but a warm, tacky wetness, and it occurs to him then that there are tears streaming down from his eyes. The light from the fire blows the salty liquid upon Arthur's fingers into glowing yellow shimmers, and for some reason, a sob barks out of his throat._ _

__"I don't know why I'm crying neither!" He wails, looking almost desperately at Charles._ _

__Charles gives him a grave, stricken look. One of his hands finding it's way to Arthur's shoulder, light over his healing stab wound, it then slides up over Arthur's maimed neck, to skate over his cheek bone and gently brush over the mostly healed bruise along his jaw, blotchy and yellow; the touch is feather light but steady, never pulling away or pressing too hard._ _

"We need to stop meetin' like this," Arthur mumbles in a slurred voice, smiling coyly.

__"You're a mess," Charles moans back at him miserably, then locks eyes with Arthur._ _

__They stare at each other for a moment, just a moment, before bursting into another raucous fit of shared laughter; falling into each other's arms and tumbling to the dirt as the sun finally sinks beyond the horizon._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The details about whether or not folks in the old West used marijuana are kind of fuzzy, there are allusions and references to it's usage through smoking and consumption in various texts, but there doesn't seem to be a specific answer for the strength of what they smoked/ate, how they generally consumed it, where it was mostly consumed etc. It's usage was definitely more notable in the South West on the country, as well as further into Mexico however. So my including of it in this story is likely a historical embellishment, but it's not as if RDR2 is perfectly accurate to the times anyway.
> 
> As usual I greatly appreciate comments and kudos, it was hard to find the motivation to write this chapter as I was starting to get a bit discouraged about this story, especially after losing the original version that served as my baseline. Also I combed for typos and such, and tried to scrub as many as I could find, but some may have slipped by so if you notice anything glaring don't hesitate to let me know!


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